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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






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BETWEEN TIMES; 



OR, 



Tales, Sketches, and Poems, 

WRITTEN IN THE LEISURE MOMENTS 
OF A BUSY LIFE. 



BY 



I. E. DIEKENGA, 

AUTHOR OF "JASPAR GROALEb," "THE WORN-OUT SHOE," ETC. 






BOSTON: 

JAMES H. EARLE. PUBLISHER, 

17S Washington Street. > 

1882. 






^^\^i^ 



Copyright, 1881, 

By I. E. DlEKENGA. 



/;2-3/f/^ 



BOSTOK Stebeottpe Foxjitdrt, 

No. 4 Pearl Street. 



N. H. D., 

AND ALL THE 

FOLKS AT HOME, 

"WHOSE LOVING INTEREST IN THESE PAGES IS SINCERE, 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



My publisher asks me whether I want a preface 
to this book, — a courteous, and doubtless a neces- 
sary question, which plunges me into a most 
uncomfortable state of mental indecision ; the 
trouble being, not so much whether a preface 
should be written, as what it should contain. 

The book must have a preface, certainly. Who 
ever heard of a book that pretended to lay any 
claim whatever to respectability without one ? 
Like the dome on a public building, it takes up 
space, and costs a deal of trouble to make it, and 
is of no particular use after it is made, and is 
sometimes inclined to be hollow, but then, it is 
perfectly proper, and — imposing ! 

However, if it is asked, why was this book writ- 
ten .-• I must answer frankly that, as a book, it was 
not written, but, like Topsy, it "just growed." 



6 PREFACE. 

Between times, — that is to say, in such spare 
moments as an active business life afforded, — it 
has been a pleasure and a recreation to turn aside 
from the graver duties of the hour in order to re- 
cord those thoughts and observations, and to cul- 
tivate those lighter fancies, of which some are 
gathered here. 

As I review them, I can freely claim that the 
delineations of character, as here presented, are 
not untrue, and that the sentiments recorded are 
sincere, and written out of my heart. 

To any other quality I lay no claim, except 
to such as time and the impartial judgment of 
my readers shall discover. If it is anything in 
their favor that many of these selections were first 
accepted and published by various periodicals, east 
and west, let them have the benefit of it. And I 
take this opportunity of heartily thanking those 
kind-hearted editors who did so much to help and 
to encourage me. 

The book will appear in the holiday season of 
the year. May it add something to the pleasure 
and the happiness of that ever fresh and ever 
happy time; and that the purifying fascination of 
these days, with all their merry cheer^ and the 



• PREFACE. 7 

love that they inspire and commemorate, may be 
present in the heart and around the hearth of 
every one who looks upon these pages, I most ear- 
nestly and sincerely pray. 

I. E. DiEKENGA, 



CONTENTS. 



PROSE TALES. 

Page 

I. Beatrice Car amino 15 

II. Dopps ....... 36 

III. Simeon Snuffly 46 

IV. The Old Cathedral .... 53 
V. Ben Sickles 66 

SKETCHES. 

VI. UZZLERY 85 

VII. Mr. Croocher 89 

VIII. Mr. Blinks 94 

IX. Old Flippity 97 

X. Bong and Dogget. No. i . . , 102 

XI. Bong and Dogget, No. 2 . . . .107 

XII. Mr. Bluster 109 

XIII. The Oldest Inhabitant . . . .113 

XIV. The Wreck 118 

XV. Mother Brightface 120 

XVI. David Dareall 124 

XVII. Sister Jane 129 

XVIII. Little Toddler 133 

9 



10 CONTENTS. 

THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 

The Village 139 

The Homestead 141 

Guy Allen . . 142 

May Allen 144 

Richard Lee 148 

The Rescue 149 

The Reward 152 

Love's Beginning 153 

Allen's Anger 155 

Richard's Departure 160 

May's Decline 161 

Sleep, Memphis 162 

The Hero of Peace 164 

Face to Face 166 

The Heart Rebuked i68 

The Last Victim 169 

The Joyful Return 171 

Closing Words 174 

POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

James A. Garfield 179 

The Cry of the White Slave . . . .181 

Gilbert Ray ........ 186 

Little Bennie — Little Mamie .... 188 

The Sleep of the Little Ones . . . . 192 

Death of Faithful Rover 194 

The Southern Wind . . . . . . 197 



CONTENTS. 1 1 

Battle of the Clouds 199 

Days of Yore 202 

Margy Brown 205 

Charles Sumner 207 

The Ash-man 209 

My Wife 211 

The Unfortunate Shoemaker . . . . 213 

My Feet are on the Mountains . . . 214 

Face the Music 217 

Maxims 218 

Fear not, Dear Heart 219 

Uncertainty 222 

When I would Die 223 

Lesson of the Leaves 227 

Creed of Love 229 

Turn About 230 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 



I. 

BEATRICE CARAMINO. 

A STORY OF THE WIND AND THE RAIN. 




NASTY, disagreeable, uncomfortable day, 
— no doubt about that. Even the old, 
gray-headed and weather-beaten janitor 
of the Court House, who generally existed in a 
chronic state of opposition to every proposition 
that was put forth, was obliged to acknowledge the 
truth of this assertion, and reluctantly admitted 
that it was an unlikely day. 

It was the wind that did it. Of course, it is al- 
ways the wind that does it ; provided, naturally, 
that it is not caused by the rain, or the hail, or 
the snow, or the sun ; but, all things being equal, 
and none of these exceptional agencies at work, it 
is, without doubt, morally certain to be the wind 
that does it. 

That is, in addition to dust. Oh, certainly in 

IS 



1 6 BETWEEN TIMES. 

addition to dust. For no wind is to be considered 
in the slightest degree worthy of a moment's notice, 
unless it can make a pepper-box of itself to distrib- 
ute an unlimited quantity of dust. And we are 
happy to think, we of the cities of this dear land 
of America, that there is such ample provision 
within our borders for changing even the slightest 
breeze into a most worthy and respectable wind. 

It was a nasty day. There ! I have said it 
twice, but let it stand. If it relieves my feelings 
nobody need object, I hope. Especially since I 
am safe in the house, and do not care that for the 
wind. (Be kind enough, my dear reader, to suppose 
that I have just snapped my fingers.) And being 
a nasty day through its, being a warm day ; and a 
disagreeable and uncomfortable day through its 
being a windy and a dusty day, it was, altogether 
and decidedly, a bad day for business. Apples, 
that is ; and oranges, so to speak ; in connection 
with jujube paste. For when you stand upon the 
corner of two streets all day, where the wind has 
full power, and the dust comes down in clouds — 
when you stand like little Beatrice Caramino, be- 
hind a fruit stand on such a day as this, you will 
find, too, as she did, that dust is very hard on 
oranges, harder still on apples, but perfectly ruin- 
ous on jujube paste. 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 1 7 

You see, jujube paste melts when it is warm, 
and dust clings to it, making it look gray and 
dirty, and causing it to taste old and gritty. And 
when your stock in trade consists largely of this 
luxury, and the insane wind cuts all manner of 
capers, and just loads it with dust, why it's simply 
ruination ; that's what it is. 

Whether the wind did it out of a spirit of mis- 
chief, or out of spite, or what not, I do not know ; 
not being on intimate speaking terms with the 
wind I cannot say ; but that the miserable wind 
did sweep around that particular corner, and pay 
his earnest attention to Beatrice's stand, is an 
abominable fact. Indeed, I might almost think 
that he was in love with Beatrice, for she was a 
nice little Italian girl, and that he was presenting 
her with all this dust in lieu of having anything 
better to give her, were it not that I know that she 
was too young and that he was too old — the hoary 
old monster ! 

Beatrice tried hard to keep her fruit and candy 
clean, but in vain. And at last she stood there, 
with two or three tears making their way through 
the dust on her little brown cheeks — a perfect 
picture of despair. Having no hope left for the 
apples and the oranges, and giving the jujube paste 
up for lost, little Beatrice raised her eyes and tried 



1 8 BETWEEN TIMES. 

to look through her tears to see how other people 
were faring. Not very well, I can tell you. For 
the wind was so strong and the dust was so thick 
that some people were running sideways, like dogs 
going to market, while others were holding their 
hats on with both hands, bumping up against each 
other and blaming everybody but themselves and 
the weather for the mishap ; and there was one old 
gentleman who, in crossing the street, was so anx- 
ious to avoid an omnibus, looking meanwhile over 
his shoulder to see whether the horses were almost 
upon him, that he was running right toward an 
approaching street-car and seemed to know nothing 
about it. Little Beatrice's heart throbbed pain- 
fully as she saw this. He was such a nice, tall, 
white-haired old gentleman, just like the picture of 
one of the saints in the old damp cellar of a home 
where Beatrice lived, that she could not bear to 
see him in such danger and not strive to help 
him. And so, leaving her jujube paste, she ran 
out into the street regardless of her personal 
safety, and cried to the old man, — 

"Come — come — ze car! you vill be kill! zis 
way ! zis way ! " 

And the next moment they stood safely upon 
the sidewalk. And then the car-driver put on the 
brakes in such a hurry that the people who were 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 1 9 

Standing in the car plunged forward in the most 
undignified and ridiculous manner ; and having 
done this he glanced around with an air of self-sat- 
isfaction as if he thought he had done something 
quite meritorious for which he expected to be in- 
stantly rewarded. The old man shook his head 
at him and acted as if he was on the point of giv- 
ing him the benefit of quite a severe lecture, when 
a great cloud of dust came and completely hid the 
car from sight. And when the dust was gone the 
car had rumbled on its way. 

Then the old gentleman turned to the little 
Beatrice. And little Beatrice thought that she had 
never seen so kind and fatherly a face — not 
excepting the pictured saint upon the wall of her 
cellar-home, who seemed to look down upon her at 
night with compassion for being a little brown 
orange girl, compelled to sleep on straw and to eat 
brown bread and old cheese. 

" Well, my brave little girl," said the old gentle- 
man, " you have done me a great service — a great 
service. You have undoubtedly saved me from 
being seriously injured. Who knows but what you 
have preserved my life .'' You are certainly entitled 
to some compensation." 

Little Beatrice moved slowly to her place behind 
the fruit stand. She appeared to be very much 



20 BETWEEN TIMES. 

ashamed of herself and seemed not to understand 
what the old gentleman meant. And if my opinion 
is asked upon the subject I 'must heartily confess 
that I don't believe she did. 

" But, first, you must let me thank you," con- 
tinued the old gentleman, patting her dusty brown 
cheek ; " you are a brave little girl, and a good 
little girl, and I thank you very much indeed." 

Well, the apples and the oranges could sink in 
the dust if they felt like it ; and the jujube paste 
might turn itself into a lump of clammy, gritty mud 
if it wanted to, and it would not bring a tear to 
those little downcast eyes. For I do believe if 
that self-same white-haired saint, looking down 
pityingly from the damp, low cellar walls, had come 
down from heaven and blessed her, she could not 
have felt the least bit happier. At the same time 
little Beatrice looked very much embarrassed and 
said nothing. Whereupon the old gentleman 
hastened to reassure her by saying, — 

" Well, I won't say any more about that, and 
you needn't be afraid of me. What is your name, 
my child ? " 

Little Beatrice wondered, in her simple manner, 
how it would feel to be really the child of this kind 
old gentleman. However, she answered, very 
shyly, it is true, but still audibly, — 



BEATRICE CAR AMINO. 2l 

" Beatrice Caramino." 

" Where do you live, Beatrice ?" 

" Down zis way," and a little brown finger 
pointed modestly in the direction of the river. 

" A very general direction, little girl, but suf- 
ficiently clear for all practical purposes. But, ah ! 
what is this .'' I am afraid we are both caught, sure 
enough." 

Caught ! So they were, without a question. 
The wind again. Oh, of necessity, the wind again, 
suddenly introducing, without so much as " if you 
please " its sworn friend and ally — the rain. 

" Heyday ! " exclaimed the old gentleman, " this 
looks bad. What do you do with your fruit, my 
child, when it rains like this ! " 

" Take 'em in dair," and the little brown finger 
again modestly pointed, this time to the large open 
stairway of the building before which they were 
standing. 

"This will never do," said the old man, " we 
must find an umbrella somewhere, and then you 
must have a holiday. Wait a moment. I think I 
can find an umbrella over there." And then the 
old gentleman, inclining his head toward the point 
from which the wind was blowing, held his hat 
tightly, and hastened across the street toward a 
bank that stood upon the opposite corner. 



22 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Wonderful to little Beatrice Caramino ! To 
think of it ! That one who could enter boldly into 
the dazzling and secluded precincts of the bank — 
where the gold and the silver were — should have 
taken notice of the little fruit girl, who looked 
upon the bank and everything connected with it 
with the profoundest awe ; the grand bank, where 
the great men of the city came, and where every 
person who had the golden right of entrance was a 
king, a prince, or a great noble at the very least. 

Poor, common little orange peddler ! What a 
wide gulf between her knowledge and the knowledge 
of the world ! But oh, we people of the world, the 
wider gulf between our clouded innocence and the 
pure innocence of Beatrice Caramino ! 

But here the wind did it again. 

I really regret the necessity of referring even for 
a moment to its outrageous capers, but it did it. 
And in this way : — 

Just as the old gentleman had reached the curb- 
stone of the corner where the bank stood, a great 
gust of wind brought on an increased torrent of 
rain. And so fiercely did the wind blow, and so 
heavily did the rain fall that the driver of a carriage 
was compelled to turn his horses' heads into a cross 
street, and drive out of the immediate fury of the 
storm. In so doing the carriage came quite close 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 23 



beside the old gentleman, who, upon looking up, 
started and said. " Halloa, Andrax ! " and then 
stood quite still upon the curbstone, regardless of 
the wind and of the rain. 

Really, it does my heart good to know that upon 
this day anybody had the courage to do anything 
regardless of the wind and of the rain. Yes, there 
he stood so transiixed by the sight of some person 
in the carriage that he took no heed of the storm 
that was raging in all its fury about him. 

Not less surprised was the person by the singu- 
lar name of Andrax, who was within the carriage ; 
lor, lowering the window this person who proved to 
be a middle-aged gentleman with a very brown but 
\^et a very handsome face, called out excitedly, — - 

" Montgomery, is it you ? Land of the living ! 
do I behold you again .•• " 

" Andrax, I am delighted to see you," said the 
old • gentleman, warmly, and impulsively shaking 
the hand that was extended to him through the 
window, " and all the more so because this is a gen- 
uine surprise. I supposed that you were enjoying 
yourself by the Bay of Naples, or quietly resting 
under the shadow of St. Peter's at Rome. When 
did you arrive } Where did you come from .'* Who 
are you stopping with .'' How — " 

" Beast that I am ! " exclaimed the foreigner, 



24 BETWEEN TIMES. 

suddenly opening the carriage door in a great 
hurry, " beast that I am to keep an old man and an 
old friend out in such a storm. Come in — come 
in and let me beg a thousand pardons for this rude- 
ness," and without permitting the old gentleman to 
reply, the foreigner pulled him into the carriage, and 
almost overwhelmed him with regrets and excuses. 

"Ah !" thought little Beatrice, "the good father 
has forgotten me." 

" That will do, that will do," said the old man, 
carefully shaking the water from his hat, which he 
held by the brim between his thumbs and fore- 
fingers, " it was nothing at all, nothing at all. I'm 
not made of sugar, nor you of salt ; that has al- 
ready been tested in Italy, eh, Andrax .'' " 

" A curse on the brigands ! That very storm 
has brought me here." 

" Indeed." 

" Yes, and it comes in this wise. You know 
when the brigands took us through that awful 
storm to their hole in the mountains, it was my 
hope that, please the Lord, I might once more look 
upon the face of my poor little Lucrece, stolen from 
me six long years ago. For this reason I kept back 
my ransom, and staid a prisoner of the abominable 
robbers. But, two days after you bade me adieu, I 
heard two of the brigands say that Cap-llo had 



BEATRICE CAR AMINO. 25 

been driven out of the woods by the soldiers, and 
had escaped by taking passage on an American 
vessel for America, and that to further his plan of 
escape in pretending to be a poor peasant, emigra- 
ting to the new land to seek his fortune, he had 
taken with him a little girl about ten years of age, 
whom he compelled by fearful threats to say that 
he was indeed a peasant, and that she was his 
daughter. From what the scoundrels said I knew 
that this little girl was my own lost little child. 
Wherefore I paid my ransom, and followed the pre- 
tended emigrants. I tracked them from place to 
place over the whole United States, and at last 
only two days ago I was informed that they were 
here — and here I am." 

" We will do our best to find them," said the old 
man sympathetically placing his hand upon the 
other's knee. " You can count upon my assistance 
to the fullest extent of my power." 

" I do not doubt it at all," said the foreigner, 
with tears in his eyes. " It was an offer that might 
have been expected from a friend with such a gen- 
erous heart. But I thank you all the same, Mont- 
gomery, as if it had been a complete surprise." 

" Dear me," said the old gentleman, suddenly 
straightening up and looking anxiously out of the 
window. " I must not forget my protege." 



26 BETWEEN TIMES. 

" Your protege ? " 

" Yes — a little girl over there — a fruit peddler 
— who has done me a valuable service, and I pro- 
mised to return to her." And here the old gentle- 
man rapidly narrated the occurrences as they have 
been previously described. 

" An umbrella ! Man, what can you do with an 
umbrella in such a rain as this ? She shall go in 
this carriage." 

" I would never think of such a thing," began 
the old gentleman. 

"Beast that I am," said the foreigner impul- 
sively, " I am not yet a snake — I do not sting the 
hand that befriends me. VVho was it saved Count 
Andrax from drowning when the river was high 
and the storm swept over Calabria .'' Alexander 
Montgomery. And to whom then does Count An- 
drax owe an everiasting debt of gratitude .'' To 
Alexander Montgomery." 

" Tut, Tut," said the old man. 

" It is so," said Count Andrax, " and I shall' not 
forget it. And so your protege, be she as ugly and 
as dirty as a cannibal, shall ride in this carriage." 

So the good father had not forgotten Beatrice 
Caramino. 

Ah, we of little faith ! How apt are we' to 
think, when the storm beats upon us ever so 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 2 J 

lightly, that the good Father has forgotten us, and 
like the little peddler, glance ruefully upon our 
apples and our oranges, and wonder what we live 
for. 

Little Beatrice was surprised to see the carriage 
stopping before the stairway upon which she had 
taken refuge. She was more surprised to see the 
coachman descend and advance toward her, and 
perfectly amazed to hear him say, " The gentlemen 
in the carriage want you, sissy. Pack up your 
traps and come along." 

Carefully placing the apples and the oranges in 
the old basket before her and suffering the coach- 
man to take charge of it she followed him to the 
carriage where, oh, happiness unspeakable, the 
good father actually lifted her in and placed her on 
the seat beside him. 

"This is my little protege," said the old man. 
" Now, Beatrice, we are going to take you home, 
where do you live .'' " 

Beatrice told him in her pretty broken English, 
whereupon the coachman received his orders and 
away they went. 

And now, a fig for the wind and the rain. 
Baffled at last they swept the deserted corner with 
a moan and a rush as if they regretted having per- 
mitted their victim to escape. 



28 BETWEEh' TIMES. 



If Beatrice had had the courage to look up she 
would have seen that the strange gentleman oppo- 
site her was earnestly and intently regarding her. 
But the bashful little girl sat there scarcely daring 
to move, with a vague impression that she must 
surely be in the company of a saint and a king ; for 
the fine clothes, the medal on the breast, the queer 
hat and the stately air of the stranger all tended to 
produce this exaggerated impression. 

When they had passed two or three blocks the 
stranger spoke, and addressing her in Italian said, — 
" What is your name, my dear ? " 
" Beatrice Caramino." 
** Have you a father and mother ?" 
" No mother, sir, but a father." 
" Have you always lived here .'' " 
" No, sir. We have come from New Orleans." 
It was well that Beatrice was a modest little girl, 
for indeed it cannot be otherwise than true, that if 
she had dared at that moment to raise her eyes to 
the dark gentleman's face she would have been 
startled, not to say frightened by the singular ex- 
pression that was resting upon it. 

" You came," said the gentleman slowly, as if he 
desired to be sure that he had heard aright — " you 
came, you say, from New Orleans .■* " 
" Yes, sir," said Beatrice. 



BEATRICE CAR AMINO. 29 

" What is your father's name ?" 

" Manuel Caramino." 

" Has he no other name ? " 

" No, sir — oh, yes, sir. Aunt Maria calls him 
sometimes Bernardo — " 

" Father of mercies ! " 

" But he does not like it, sir, for he always scolds 
her when she says it, and makes her call him 
Manuel." 

Something strange here happened to the foreign 
gentleman. As soon as little Beatrice had spoken 
he suddenly and much to her alarm lifted her up 
from her seat and placed her — little waif of an 
orange peddler — upon his knee, and even went so 
far as to press her to his bosom. Then placing her 
upon the cushion beside him he opened the little 
window in front and called out to the driver, — 

" What makes you drive so slow ? Why do you 
not drive faster .'' " 

" Be careful, Andrax, be careful," said the old 
gentleman, who had looked upon this scene with 
silent astonishment ; " you may be mistaken, you 
know." 

But the foreign gentleman in the most excitable 
and unaccountable manner only shook his head and 
urged his coachman to drive faster. But instead of 
going faster the carriage stopped, and the foreign 



30 BETWEEN TIMES. 



p;eritlen"ian arose and indignantly demanded why 
they did not drive on. 

" Sir," said the man, touching his hat with a 
coachman's dignity, " this is the place." 

" What ! this wretched neighborhood ? My 
child, can it be possible that you live here?" 

Beatrice said " Yes," and pointed to a house in 
a row near by — a dirty, tumble-down row in one 
of the dirtiest neighborhoods of the city. 

" Poor child, poor child ! " said the foreign gentle- 
man, " that you should live in such a place as 
this." 

Then they went into the house. And here they 
saw a great many people. And little Beatrice 
looked around with astonishment, for she had 
never seen so many people in the house before, 
even though it was a tenement house in which a 
great many families lived ; and these people seeing 
her come in broke into certain strange exclama- 
tions and expressions of pity. 

" It is better for her, he was always cruel," said 
one. 

" She can be no worse off, surely," said another. 

"She shall live with me until- she finds a place," 
exclaimed a third, while yet another stroked her 
hair. 

Beatrice wondered what all this meant, especially 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 3 1 

since they tried to hold her back and gently kept 
her from nearing the dirty steps that led into the 
cellar where she lived. Seeing this the old gentle- 
pan, Mr. Montgomery, spoke : " What is the 
matter, my friends ? What has happened ? " 

Immediately one man whispered to Mr. Mont- 
gomery, and another looked at Beatrice and shook 
his head, and another pointed at the narrow stair- 
way that was crowded with these poor people. 

As soon as Mr. Montgomery heard what the 
man whispered, he said to Beatrice : " Wait here a 
moment, my child ; " and then, followed by Count 
Andrax, pushed through the crowd and came into 
the damp, unwholesome cellar. 

It was well that Beatrice had been left behind, 
for there, upon a rude pallet of straw, lay the out- 
stretched figure of a man — a great rough man — 
whose bushy whiskers, weather-beaten face and 
tangled black hair were bathed in blood. There, 
beneath "the curious gaze of strangers, lay Manuel 
Caramino, with his life-blood ebbing fast away. As 
the two gentlemen entered, a rosy-faced little man 
arose from the floor and shook his head. The 
people understood the doctor's action and knew 
that there was no hope. A soft murmur v/ent up 
the narrow stair, and the people gathered about 
the little Beatrice with looks and words of con- 



BETU'EEX TIMES. 



dolence, until they frightened her and she began 
to cry. 

Meanwhile the foreign gentleman had made his 
way through the throng in the cellar until he stood 
beside the prostrate man. Instantly his whole 
being changed. His lips quivered, he grew pale, 
his eyes looked as if they were touched with fire, 
his rigid finger pointed at the dying man, and 
grasping his friend's arm so tightly that it pained 
him, cried, — 

" Merciful Heavens ! Montgomery, look ! do you 
not see ? " 

Mr. Montgomery looked sharply at the upturned 
face — then started as if he had been stung and 
said, — 

" Is it possible that this is — " 

"The brigand — Bernardo Capello ! It is — it 
is. I have found him — God be praised ! " 

At that moment a woman on her knees, an olfl 
shrivelled-faced woman, who had been chafing the 
dying man's hands, looked up at the excited 
foreigner who had thus spoken. With a sudden 
cry she sprang to her feet, and then uttering a 
strange exclamation in Italian and a piercing 
scream, she threw up her arms and fainted. 

" The brigand's mother," said Count Andrax. 

" Then this must be the aunt Maria," said Mr. 
Montgomery. 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 33 

At that moment, probably awakened from his 
death-Hke stupor by the woman's scream, the 
brigand opened his eyes, and saw the man whom 
he had wronged. He knew him and tried to smile, 
then moved his lips, but his voice was inaudible. 
Count Andrax knelt beside him and the man 
looked pleased. Then Count Andrax placed his 
ear close to the man's mouth and heard the 
brigand's dying whisper. 

"Count Andrax — it is you. I have done you a 
wrong and I am sorry — but I will restore — I will 
restore your own — the child — the infant — she is 
alive — she will come home when the day is closed 
— she knows not her name — Lucrece — call her 
Beatrice — Beatrice Caramino — tell her you are her 
father — take her home — curse me not — for I 
atone — and Jesus — He is merciful — oh! — the 
storm breaks — I cannot speak — I cannot see — 
it is dark — adieu." 

And the soul of Bernardo Capello, otherwise 
known as Manuel Caramino, journeyed outward to 
the future and the unknown world. 

After the solemn pause which generally follows 
the departure of a human soul, Mr. Montgomery, 
inquired the cause of the man's death. The rosy- 
faced little doctor, with a grave look that illy became 
his cheery features, hastened to reply that Capello 



34 BETWEEN TIMES. 

liad gone out ; that the wind and the rain had over- 
taken him ; whereupon, he had sought refuge in an 
old, deserted house close by the river. But a furious 
gale suddenly struck the house, which, without a 
moment's notice, succumbed before the storm, and 
fell upon the man who had sought its shelter. 

Having heard the story Count Andrax hastily 
placed in the doctor's hand a sufficient sum for the 
decent burial of the dead man, and then hastened 
out of the dull, close place. He found little 
Beatrice weeping near the door. 

" Lucrece — my little Lucrece ! " and without 
caring who looked on, the noble, stately-looking 
gentleman folded the little brown orange peddler to 
his breast. 

And now the wind may blow and the rain may 
fall just where it will. But we will not fear them 
any more. For they are the Lord's servants and 
they do His will. 

Not far from the Bay of Naples there is a beau- 
tiful place, in the centre of which stands a grand 
old mansion, where by the door at eventide there 
often sits a noble gentleman, a motherly and stately 
lady, and a most handsome, blooming girl. And 
at such times one may see that their glances are 
directed westward — out over the blue sea, even in 



BEATRICE CARAMINO. 35 

the direction of our own dear land of America. 
And then the mother will say, — 

"Ah, Lucrece, how often we have longed for 
you while we sat here and wondered whether you 
were still alive." 

" And is it not strange, mother, that we should 
be so happily reunited after we have been so many 
miles apart .-' " 

" It is very singular," Count Andrax will say as 
he pats his daughter's rosy cheeks — " very singu- 
lar ; as singular as that the wind and the rain 
should have so much to do with it. In a storm 
we lose our child ; in a storm we find her again. 
In a storm my life is saved ; in a storm my daugh- 
ter saves my benefactor's life. Driven by a storm 
into a deserted house we fall into the power of a 
brigand ; driven by a storm into a deserted house, 
the brigand is struck down. So may we trace 
God's hand through all our sorrows, and to His 
name be all the honor and the praise." 

And then they raise their voices in delightful 
harmony and sing one of those sweet Italian hymns 
of gladness and thanksgiving. 

Every year there visits them an old, white-headed 
man whom the blooming girl calls her " good fa- 
ther;" and every time the wind blows and the 
rain falls, this old "good father" persists in run- 



36 BETWEEN TIMES. 

ning out bare-headed into the storm, for, he says, 
it reminds him of his little orange peddler. And 
he never calls her Lucrece, but always Beatrice 
Caramino. And then they laugh. And they are 
very happy. 



II. 
DOPPS. 




ilOPPS was a dog. And where in the world 
Dopps came from, and what in the world 
was the reason that Dopps clung to the 
neighborhood of Barnhill with a stubborn persis- 
tency that was truly dogged, and worthy of a bet- 
ter cause, were problems which all the Barnhill 
population were as unable to solve as the enigma 
how Dopps possibly got a living now that he had 
come. For, sad to tell, nobody loved Dopps ; and 
nobody took Dopps in. And when Dopps, in the 
extremity of his hunger, took courage from neces- 
sity, and timidly slunk near the back of a Barnhill 
house, in the vain hope of picking up a bone, he 
was promptly attacked by every member of the 
family ; and this attack, being suddenly made and 
vigorously pressed, generally ended in the hurried 



DOPPS. 37 

disappearance of poor Dopps, with his tail between 
his legs. And thus for a time would Dopps be 
ignominiously dismissed from the society of Barn- 
hill. But only for a time. For he always came 
back. Indeed, it was one of the most singular 
characteristics of this houseless and homeless 
wanderer that he always came back. And so 
often had he been driven away, and so often had 
he returned, that Barnhill had settled down into 
an apathetic state of endurance, and Dopps was 
permitted to remain to be the constant target 
of the sticks and stones with which the gentle 
Barnhillers were in the daily habit of saluting 
him. 

True, Dopps was not a handsome dog. To tell 
the truth, the greatest stretch of imagination could 
not have endowed poor Dopps with even passable 
good looks. And when it is remembered that 
Dopps' natural color was a very dirty yellow, ren- 
dered still dirtier through long exposure to the 
dust and mud of Barnhill, and that each particular 
hair seemed to have grown for no other purpose 
than to curl in an entirely different manner and 
direction from any of the ' others ; that Dopps's 
bushy tail, from dragging in the mud for many 
months, was caked and matted ; and that, alto- 
gether, Dopps was a most awkward and ungainly 



38 BETWEEN TIMES. 

creature, it may be imagined how ugly he was, and 
how little sympathy and encouragement was be- 
stowed upon him. 

Thus Depps was a most unwelcome guest in 
Barnhill, and, had he possessed the slightest sensi- 
bility to the insults that were heaped upon him^ 
would have left Barnhill long. ago. But, strange to 
say, he adhered faithfully to that inhospitable vil- 
lage, avoiding, as best he might, the missiles that 
were launched after him by day, and seeking by 
night, wheresoever he could, the scanty subsistence 
that supported him. 

But darker days were coming for poor Dopps, — 
days when he was to be not only suspected of 
being a nuisance, but also of being a criminal. 
Poor, poor Dopps. 

" There it is again," said Squire Hawkins, com- 
ing into the house excitedly, and entering the 
kitchen, where Mother Hawkins was busily at 
work, " there it is again ; " and without vouchsafing 
any explanation as to the cause of his excitement, 
Squire Hawkins gave a tremendous blow to the 
kitchen table, as a relief to his feelings, and glared 
savagely at his wife. 

" Dear me, father," said that estimable lady, let- 
ting the rolling-pin fall into the flour-barrel, "what's 
the matter ? " 



DOPPS. 39 

" Matter ! " growled Squire Hawkins, giving the 
table such a powerful blow that the dishes in the 
cupboard jingled. " Matter ! 'nough's the matter. 
I can stand one, and I can stand two once in a 
while, but when it comes to being a regular daily 
transaction, two or three at a time, it s more tlian 
I'm going to stand, and I won't stand it either, so 
there ! " and having indulged in another assault 
upon the unoffending table. Squire Hawkins began 
to walk hurriedly back and forth, meanwhile rolling 
up his sleeves as if preparing to visit summary 
punishment upon the guilty parties, whoever they 
might be. 

" Why, father," said Mrs. Hawkins, " what can 
be the matter .-' Anything wrong with the pigs .-' " 

"Pigs!" retortedthe squire, in tone and accents 
of the deepest scorn. " Pigs ! Can a dog carry 
away a whole pig in his mouth — and a live one at 
that — besides killing two others, and we not hear 
anything of it.-* No, they were not pigs. Humph! 
Pigs, indeed ! " 

" Why, father, how quick you are this evening. 
Do tell me what is the matter ! " 

" Well, if you must know," exclaimed the stout 
squire, once more giving vent to his feelings by a 
terrific blow upon the table, " it's the hens ; that's 
what it is." 



40 BETWEEN TIMES. 

" The hens ! " 

"Yes, the hens — the poultry. The bantam 
rooster is missing, and two of the pullets are dead 
on the floor of the roost. The dirty, thieving, 
good-for-nothing sneak of a dog ! " 

" The little bantam gone ! And two of the hens 
dead ! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear ! Who could 
have been so wicked ? " and good Mother Hawkins 
actually had tears in her eyes, for the poultry were 
her particular care, and the bantam was her es- 
pecial pride. 

" Who else can it be but that cowardly, mean, 
filthy, outcast yellow dog, that 's been hanging 
round here now for six months or more .'' Where's 
my shot gun ? Where's my powder and ball ? 
If I don't see justice done before I'm much older 
I'll know the reason why," and so saying, Squire 
Hawkins pounded once more vigorously upon the 
table and stalked out of the room. 

Surely now Dopps' doom might be considered 
sealed. For Barnhill having been constructed upon 
that peculiar plan whereby the slightest whisper 
spoken in its precincts found its way with marvel- 
lous rapidity into every house, it was not long be- 
fore the whole population were aware of the out- 
rageous crime which had been committed. And 
the horrible suspicion once fastened upon poor 



DOPPS. 41 

Dopps, a terrible cloud began to gather over his 
unconscious head. How fast will a snowball gathcr 
volume as it rolls along ! And how quickly does 
accusation upon accusation cling to a suspected 
character ! By nightfall every theft, misdemeanor 
or wickedness that had ever been perpetrated in 
Earnhill had been laid to the charge of Dopps, 
until, in a manner that spoke volumes for the im- 
agination of the Barnhillers it had been sagely de- 
cided that Dopps had stolen or slaughtered more 
chickens, bitten more children, lamed more cattle, 
and killed more sheep than could possibly have 
been done by ten other dogs of any age, race, 
place, size, disposition or condition. Logically, 
then, Dopps was one dog too many in the world. 
Clearly, then, Dopps must die. 

The manner of his death was not, however, so 
easy to determine upon, since from long persecu- 
tion Dopps had acquired such a timid and watch- 
ful disposition that it was not a matter of ease to 
approach him within any reasonable distance what- 
ever. For certain precautionary reasons, among 
which may be mentioned a doubt as to the ability 
of a Barnhiller to shoot in any given direction 
without danger to a trembling and alarmed popu- 
lation, and a consequent disappearance of all the 
Barnhillers within ' shooting range, it was decided 



42 BETWEEN TIMES. 

that Dopps should not be shot. Beating, hanging 
and trapping were also rejected for equally satis- 
factory reasons. Nothing then remained but that 
Dopps should be drowned. And it was accord- 
ingly decided, after long and earnest deliberation, 
'that Dopps should be coaxed to the edge of the 
pond by Squire Hawkins' children, a boy of ten 
and a girl of eight, and that when Dopps was 
secured, a brave party of six Barnhillers headed 
by the noble squire should dash to victory or dis- 
appointment in the full glory of high-topped boots 
and leather gauntlets, and in company with a stone 
and string, with which attached to his neck, poor 
Dopps should bid farewell to an indignant world 
and sink to a watery grave. Tableau ! 

Poor Dopps ! The first kindness that met him 
in his life was intended to lure him to destruction. 
Eagerly the Barnhillers watched the lonely dog, 
which, uncertain whether to trust the friendly ad- 
vance of the children, moved very cautiously and 
slowly, and seemed ready to fly at the first alarm. 

But little by little the distance between them 
lessened. Gradually the dog drew nearer until at 
last the savory odor of a piece of meat provided by 
the children proved too great a temptation for the 
poor hungry outcast, and Dopps was caught. 

Having thus accomplished his purpose Squire 



DOPPS. 43 

Hawkins' boy waved his handkerchief as a signal 
for the brave Barnhillers to approach. And ap- 
proach they did with murder in their hearts, tri- 
umph in their eyes, and sticks in their hands. 

And now, flushed with excitement at their great 
success, Mamie Hawkins dances back and forth 
while Harry Hawkins holds the dog lest he may 
run away. The little girl jumps up and down and 
claps her hands and laughs aloud, unmindful of the 
fact that she is very, very near the water which at 
that point comes up against a high steep bank and 
is fully ten feet deep. Well, Dopps has very 
nearly swallowed all his meat. Is it the last that 
he will ever swallow .'' The Barnhillers are very 
near their victim. The man with the string has 
already tied a knot in it and is ready for the exe- 
cution. The little boy is looking at the dog un- 
mindful of his sister. She springs up and down ; 
she leaps back and forth ; she skips merrily and 
knocks her heels together ; her back is to the 
water and she is going backward. Are you very 
nearly done with eating, Dopps .'' The squire sees 
her danger, shouts and starts to run, and his com- 
panions follow closely, but they are still a hundred 
yards away from the pond and she but an inch ; 
she looks up, she smiles, she beckons with her 
hand. Another skip, another jump, another step ; 



44 BETWEEN TIMES. 

her brother looks up at that moment, and in that 
moment is upon his feet and rushing towards her. 

" Look out ! look out, Mamie ! Come this way! 
you're going too far ! you'll fall ! Oh ! " And then 
a scream, a throwing up of two little arms, the 
one word " Papa ! " and little Mamie Hawkins has 
disappeared from sight beneath the water. 

The horrified Barnhillers run with all their 
might, but will they be in time } And none of 
them can swim. Dopps has been forgotten. 

But Dopps has not forgotten. And the meat is 
gone. Now then, Dopps ! Good Dopps ! He 
springs to his feet, he is at the edge of the pond in 
a moment, where the boy stands wringing his 
hands and crying, he looks sharply at the water, 
sensible ! until a little mass of wet brown hair and 
a frightened face are seen a moment on the sur- 
face, then in goes Dopps. Hurrah old Dopps ! 
He nears her, he seizes her, as she arises once 
more, he turns, and with his precious burden 
swims safely to the land. 

Yes — pat the old dog's back; call him kind 
names and hug him, and stroke his matted, wet and 
dirty hair, the old, good-for-nothing, miserable, out- 
cast, brave old Dopps ! He has vindicated his 
character. He has returned good for evil. He 
has shown that even in such an utterly degraded, 



DOPPS. 45 

despised and hunted creature as an outcast dog 
there may be something noble. 

Well might the brave Barnhillers throw aside 
their cruel sticks in shame. Well might one of 
them cast the stone and string into the water with- 
out the trifling addition of the dog. And well 
might they lead Dopps, astonished at this unex- 
pected kindness, back into the village as an hon- 
ored guest, in no circle more esteemed than in the 
family of 'Squire Hawkins. And well was it for 
Dopps also that he was received into the 'squire's 
family, for during the very first night of his arrival 
he forever cleared his name and fame of all suspi- 
cion by killing a fox who had come for his custom- 
ary supper to 'Squire Hawkins' hen-house. 

In gratitude for his services Mother Hawkins 
loaded him with kindness, washed him clean, and 
solemnly bestowed upon him the honorable title, 
" Hero." And from that time Hero was the play- 
mate and protector of all the children in the village. 
And if you should happen to meet any of the 
Barnhill people who were children in those days, 
they will be very apt to tell you, with tears in their 
eyes, what grand good times they used to have 
with jolly old Dopps, the hero of Barnhill. 




46 BETWEEN TIMES. 

III. 

SIMEON SNUFFLY. 

|HERE was a little whitewash shop on Bid- 
die Street not many years ago, and not 
more than a league away from the church 
of St. Lawrence O'Toole, presided over by a gentle- 
man by the name of Snuffly — Simeon Snuffly. 
The stock-in-trade of Mr. Snuffly, beyond a dozen 
assorted brushes and two or three barrels filled 
with lime water, consisted of whitewash and relig- 
ion. It is true that the supply of the former article 
in the shop of Simeon Snuffly was exceedingly lim- 
ited, there being at no time enough even for the neces- 
sities of the smallest committee of a modern legisla- 
tive body. But whatever lack Mr. Snuffly may have 
experienced in this department of his trade was am- 
ply offset by the superabundant supply of religion 
which Mr. Snuffly had on hand on every occasion. 
This religion of Mr. Snuffly's being of the 
gloomy and oppressive kind, which is prone under 
any and every circumstance to look upon the evil 
side of human nature, it was a holy nightmare to 
all those unfortunate people who had anything to 
do with Mr. Snuffly ; and as it was Mr. Snuffly's 



SIMEON SNUFFLY. 47 

business to smear one part of his stock in trade 
over the blackened walls of human habitations, it 
followed as a natural consequence that Mr. Snuffly 
felt it his bounden duty to smear the other part of 
his stock-in-trade over the darker side of human 
life. From the continual exercise of his daily occu- 
pation, Mr. SnufRy had contracted an habitual 
gloomy cast of countenance and a vi?ay of shuffling 
along the street that was harrowing to the sensi- 
tive nerves of other people, and which bore in its 
sound a dim suggestion of that coming shuffling 
when the coil of life should slip from Mr. Snuffly's 
grasp, and he be seen about his usual haunts no 
more. 

Mr. Snuffly's religion, which was dark upon all 
points, was especially dark upon the subject of 
children. What the children had ever done to Mr. 
SnufHy that he should include even their innocent 
destinies in the sweep of his religion, no one could 
tell. But it is true that it was Mr. Snuffiy's firm 
belief that all children who died early were never 
to enter the heavenly mansions, but were eternally 
and hopelessly damned, for which article of faith 
Mr. SnufRy was regarded by the more worldly 
minds as a monster and ghoul. 

Now it happened one evening in September after 
Mr. Snuffly had had his hands unusually fiill of 



48 BETWEEN TIMES. 

business, and had consequently impressed five or 
six unfortunate individuals with the conviction that 
they had been entirely overlooked in the scheme of 
salvation, that there came to Mr. Snuffly's little 
shop a little fair-haired child. It stood hesitatingly 
upon the door-step until Mr. Snuffly, at last look- 
ing up from stirring his whitewash in a little half- 
barrel, espied it there. 

" Halloa ! " said Mr. Snuffly, surprised into this 
unusual exclamation by this unusual sight. 

"Good evening, Mr. Snufifiy," said the child in a 
sweet, clear voice, so different from what Mr. 
Snuffly expected to hear, that he neglected to say 
" come in," and stood staring in astonishment. 

" May I come in, Mr. Snuffly ? " 

" Oh — ah — yes," stammered Mr. Snuffly. — 
" You — ah — you — may come in ; but hadn't 
you better go home to your mother .'' " 

The child came into Mr. Snuffly's narrow little 
shop, and as it neared him Mr. Snuffly saw that it 
was very beautiful. 

"Mr. Snuffly," said the child, in that singularly 
sweet, clear voice, " I am the prince of the de- 
parted children." 

"Dear me!" said Mr. Snuffly. Mr. Snuffly 
held all exclamations sinful, and born of the devil, 
but it was surprised out of him again. 



SIMEON SNUFFLY. 49 

" Yes, I am the prince of the departed children ; 
and they are very sad and cannot rest, and they 
have come to me and wept and begged me to go 
back from whence they came and comfort their 
poor mothers." 

'^ Why don't they go home to their mothers?" 
growled Mr. Snuffly. 

"They are departed children," said the sweet 
child, smiling, "and they cannot go." 

"Dead ?" said Mr. Snuffly in a tone of awe. 

" Not dead," said the child with a more beautiful 
smile than any Mr. Snuffly had ever seen, " chil- 
dren do not die, Mr. Snuffly. They have departed 
from this earth and live forever. And they are 
happy, ah, so happy, Mr. Snuffly, that if they had 
the power they never would come back to earth, no, 
nevermore." 

This information came to Mr. Snuffly like a 
shock, coming as it did to overthrow one of the 
most cherished articles of his faith. 

"•But you said they were sad and weeping," said 
Mr. Snuffly, with a faint hope that he might still 
rescue his favorite doctrine. 

" And so they are, for one reason," said the child, 
tears starting in its bright clear eyes, " for they 
hear their mothers' voices sobbing, they see their 
mothers' tears are falling, and they cannot go to 
comfort them." 



so BETWEEN TIMES. 

"Why," said Mr. Snuffly, ''what ails the moth- 



ers i 



" For their mothers' ears have heard a voice," 
continued the child as if it had not been interrup- 
ted, " saying that the children are all dead ; that 
the children whom they loved so fondly, whom they 
brought into the world with so much pain and sor- 
row, whom they cherished in their hearts with so 
much joy and tenderness, have been plucked from 
their loving arms unmercifully and thrown like 
vipers into the fire. And they feel that they shall 
never see their children when they pass into the 
paradise ; and they weep ; oh, Mr. Snufifly, they 
shed such bitter, bitter tears because they do not 
know that I, the prince of children, am always 
ready with my multitude of little subjects to bid 
them welcome when they enter in." 

" I am sorry," said Mr. Snuffly, his heart melt- 
ing in spite of his gloomy nature ; " what can I do .'*" 

" Come with me," said the child. It took him 
by the hand and led him forth, while by some 
strange impulse which he could not explain he had 
taken up his bucket and his brush and carried them 
with him. The child led him through many streets 
and alleys, until at last they stood before a tall, 
dark mansion, into which they entered. Here the 
child took him into an empty room, where the walls 



SIMEON SNUFFLY. 51 

were covered with a mass of confused and unintel- 
ligible writing. 

" The comfort for the mothers lies there," said the 
child., pointing to the walls. " Take your brush 
and cover up that writing, which is nothing but the 
words that you have spoken during all your life- 
time. Cover them up, oh, Mr. Snuffly, and the 
truth will shine forth through all the covering. 
That truth, when it appears, take to the mothers and 
tell them I, the prince of children, sent you with it 
to cheer their drooping hearts and to fill them all 
with gladness. And as you have bowed their 
hearts with sorrow to the dust, so lift them up, oh, 
Mr. Snuflfiy, into the light of brighter hope and 
better faith." 

And then the child was gone. But urged by a 
power which he could not resist, Mr. Snuffly applied 
his brush to the curiously marked walls and worked 
away with might and main. And, strange to say, 
as his words recorded there gradually disappeared, 
other words, not till then visible, appeared upon 
the clear white surface, gathering as they grew a 
peculiar light which, shining from them, filled the 
room with a wonderful and brilliant beauty. And 
when Mr. Snuffly laid his brush aside astounded 
at this new -marvel, he saw in burning letters on the 
wall the glorious truth the child had promised, — 



52 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



" Suffer little children to come unto me, and for- 
bid them not ; for of such is the kingdom of God." 

" It is the Lord's good pleasure," said Mr. Snufifly. 
as he fell upon his knees. 

And then a rattling at the door caused Mr. 
Snuffly to open his eyes, whereupon he found him- 
self lying upon the floor of his little shop, while a 
customer stood waiting at the door. 

However, Mr. Snuffly indignantly denied the asser- 
tion that he had been asleep, and stoutly maintained 
that he had seen a vision. And to this day he never 
sees a poor sad mother, who has been deprived of her 
beloved little one, but what he reverently uncovers 
his head and brings to her the comforting and holy 
message from the prince of the departed children. 
And having found himself wrong upon this par- 
ticular article of his life-long faith, he has rejected 
the whole gloomy creed and is a welcome and an 
honored guest wherever he appears. And from 
the way in which the children hang about him 
clinging to his hands and climbing on his knees, it 
may safely be inferred that the welcome which is 
some day to greet him from the prince and the 
departed children will be a very warm one. 

" Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have 
done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, 
ye have done it unto me," 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 53 



IV. 
THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 




PICTURE I. 

CATHEDRAL AND WAREHOUSE. 

F one should chance to wander, in the city 
of St. Louis, from the river side along 
that well-known thoroughfare called Wal- 
nut Street, one would, in a very short time, approach 
a weather-stained old church. It is the Old 
Cathedral, whose crumbling front bears this in- 
scription : " Ma viaison scr^a appclee la maison de 
priere." 

They stand there — these words of God, im- 
printed in that ever fluent language — a monument 
and a reminder of a generation that is past ; when 
the old French language was the language of the 
church and home ; when the words engraven on 
that yellow, weather-beaten stone had the sig- 
nificance to those who read them that the translated 
words, " My house shall be called the house of 
prayer," have to us. Time and weather are making 
inroads on the massive pillars and the solid walls ; 
and everything about the Old Cathedral bears the 



54 BETWEEN TIMES. 

marks of age ; such age as we can boast of in this 
Western country — which is still so very young — 
even to the old-fashioned steeple and the ancient 
dial ; even to the streets around it, which are 
narrow, lined with dark, mysterious-looking houses, 
of a long-perished style of architecture — even to 
Snarlet — even to Snarlet's warehouse. 

Hard by the Old Cathedral stands this long, 
weather-worn, smoke-darkened, dust-bedecked old 
warehouse. The beams which still support the 
black and cracking roof have long been hid beneath 
a covering of dust and cobwebs. Dust and cob- 
webs also loop in drooping patches on the walls 
and hang suspended from the aged joice. Dust and 
cobwebs are festooned about the door, and, when 
too heavy, break and tumble to the ground, where 
the years that have gone by have strewn the dust 
and cobwebs inches deep. Dust and cobwebs 
cover everything in this old warehouse, not except- 
ing two or three weak bales of hay, that lean against 
the walls in various attitudes of shrivelled, dry old 
ao-e The air is choked and stifled in this building 
by the dust, which always hovers there as if it were 
a mist that cannot be dissolved. In short, no dis- 
cernment can be made of anything in this place 
except a universal air of dust, and cobwebs, and 
Snarlet, so to speak. 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 55 

There is in the commercial world, a dim tradition 
that this warehouse is a place of business ; faint 
suggestions being made of feed and storage, upon 
which profitable combination it is supposed that 
Mr. Snarlet lives. 

Manifestly, though, the dim tradition has but a 
poor foundation ; since the only objects ever stored 
in Snarlet's warehouse are the ancient bales of hay 
that lean against the wall ; and there is never any 
feed — only — dust and cobwebs. 

There is a little office in the front part of the 
warehouse, separated from it by a rough board 
partition, from which the paper hangs despondently, 
and shows the hardened paste in black and ugly 
scabs. Here in company with a few old books, two 
or three forlorn-looking chairs, a cracked old desk, a 
rusty safe and a still rustier stove, Snarlet affects 
great wisdom and in so doing snaps and growls. In 
his appearance Snarlet bears a close resemblance 
to the place, in that he seems to be an animated 
heap of dust and cobwebs — and old age. 

Oh, but Snarlet is a sharp one — and a wise one 
— is Snarlet. If there is any man who knows 
precisely what is what and which is which that 
man (in Snarlet's estimation) is Snarlet. Snarlet, 
only, knows the secret of success. Why Snarlet 
in the sanctity of dust and cobwebs, has never 



56 BETWEEN TIMES. 

turned this secret to account is an unfathomable 
mystery. Yet that he does know it, must be as 
clear to every person's mind, thinks Snarlet, as that 
the sun shines. And that brings us to the thought 
that the sun shines very brightly on a certain day 
in June, illumining the darkest corners of the 
darkest, dirtiest streets, and penetrating — bereft 
of much of its brightness thereby it is true — but 
penetrating nevertheless, through the dust and 
cobwebs into Snarlet's lair. 

Snarlet has just received three letters and has 
opened them and read them — and is, in conse- 
quence, in the worst possible humor. For two of 
these letters were urgent appeals for money due tO' 
the writer from Mr. Snarlet — and though the 
accounts have been long overdue, Mr. Snarlet 
resents the appeals as personal insults. But the 
third letter which does more to ruffle Mr. Snarlet's 
temper than either of the others, is written in a 
lady's hand, and is marked with spots that look as 
if moisture had fallen on the paper in drops pro- 
fusely. In places, where the drops touch the 
writing, the ink is blurred as if the moisture had 
mingled with it and caused it to spread. 

^' Ah," growls Snarlet. " Coming to me after so 
many years does she think I will forgive her } Fool ! 
Were I a thousand times her father, I would scorn 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 



57 



her. Does she think she can atone for what she 
has done by shedding tears upon a piece of paper 
and begging me to help her ? Idiot ! She made her 
bed and she shall lie in it. I'll have no leaning. I 
never lean on any one. She shall not lean on me." 

Having thus spoken, Snarlet looks at the letter 
and shakes his gray-haired head at it angrily ; then 
tears it slowl};' into bits and throws the fragments 
on the floor. 

Snarlet's only living near relative is a daughter, 
who, contrary to his wishes, married her lover a 
dozen years ago and went with him to California. 
Snarlet at first had many letters from her, which he 
never answered. At last she ceased to write and 
Snarlet heard nothing from her for five years. But 
to-day a tear-stained letter reached him (now lying 
torn and strewn in fragments on the floor) which 
read as follows : — 

Dear Father: After long waiting, and struggling 
against the irresistible impulse as best I may, I can restrain 
my hand no longer and am writing to you, to ask you, once 
more, and for the last time, perhaps, to take me back to your 
heart again. My husband is dead. His means are swallowed 
up in worthless companies, and I and my two Httle ones have 
nothing in the world. Out of the depths of my poverty and 
distress, and for the sake of my darlings, I plead — I pray 
with tears — oh, help me ! You loved your daughter once — 
oh, try to love her again. I have taught my children to love 
you. They speak of you daily and wonder when tliev are 



58 BETWEEN TIMES. 

going back to ' Grandpa.' But we are so poor — so poor. 
Oh, father, will you let us starve in a distant land amongst 
strangers ? I am feeble and ill. I may not live long. If I 
die, who shall take care of them, my lambs ? Say you will 
do it, father ; say you will forgive and forget, and ail our love 
and labor shall be yours so long as we live upon the earth. I 
can write no more. My eyes are full of tears, and I am too 
weak to sit up long. I can only sign myself. 

Your ever loving daughter, 

Martha. 

That is, or rather was, the letter. No more a 
letter, as it lies in scattered fragments on the dusty 
floor. In a few days it is trodden out of all 
possibility of recognition or recovery into the very 
dust and cobwebs of the place. 



PICTURE II. 

SNARLET'S SKELETONS. 

Five years have passed. Not another word has 
Snarlet heard from his daughter ; whether she is dead 
or living he does not know, and tries to believe that 
he does not care. But a strange and most un- 
comfortable feeling has been gaining strength 
within him for months past. He tries to forget it. 
He tries to avoid it ; it will not be forgotten — it 
will not be avoided. It makes him angry ; and, 
despite his anger, it increases still. It is a feeling 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 59 

of utter, hopeless, loneliness. It is a feeling that 
reminds him that he is getting older and older, and 
that he is alone. It is a terrible feeling that 
prompts him to remember how barren all his life 
has been, since he drove his daughter from his 
door ; how amongst all the millions of his fellow 
creatures, the light of love for him shines in the 
eyes of not a single one of them. In order to 
divert his mind from this gloomy and unwelcome 
monitor, Snarlet comes into the light of day 
and shows his wrinkled face on 'Change. Now, 
Snarlet's eyes are keen in searching for the bad, 
and strangely blind in searching for the good. If 
you are bold and talk of business, as it is conducted 
now, Snarlet sharply picks you up, and demonstrates 
the utter hollowness of the commercial world. If 
you dare to point to men of standing and acknowl- 
edged strength, the shrivelled finger of old " Dust 
and Cobwebs " points to men who were once as 
strong as they and who have sadly fallen. If there 
is any man, however high or low, whose closet 
holds a skeleton, old Snarlet brings it out and 
gloats upon it — and, when the chance occurs, takes 
pleasure in parading it before the public eye. 

Still, even in the light of all these facts, it some- 
how happens that Snarlet's wisdom falls on heed- 
less ears, and men labor on, grow rich in friend- 



6o BETWEEN TIMES. 

ship, rich in love, rich in material wealth, quite 
contrary to all his prophecies. And the great 
commercial world, which Snarlet says is rotten to 
the core, moves on in its accustomed way and si- 
lently ignores the skeletons which Snarlet brings 
to light, as if, indeed, there were no skeletons, no 
Snarlets, no dust and cobwebs. 

And Snarlet, poorer, drier, dustier, sharper, sur- 
lier, and more shrivelled every day, goes surely to 
his ffrave. 



PICTURE in. 

PRAYER AND FLAIMES. 

Once more, recorded by the measurement of 
time, five years have passed away ; swift years, 
indeed, to those who had no sorrow, slow years, 
alas ! to those who went through trial and dis- 
tress ; but passed, nevertheless, as every year 
must pass until that last unending year, which will 
have neither night nor day. 

The five years have laid a heavy hand on Snar- 
let, insomuch that he is bent and spare, and has a 
very wrinkled face, and is slightly lame and leans 
upon a stick. Insomuch that walking, which with 
him is' now scarcely more than shuffling, is a burden, 
and coming to the broad steps of the Old Cathe- 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 6 1 

dral he gladly sits down to lean against one of the 
round stone pillars and rest his weary bones. 

It must be a fete day, for people are going in 
and coming out in groups. Seeing them, Snarlet 
begins to wonder how long it is since he was in a 
church. He feels unutterably lonely. All his 
wisdom, all his sharpness, all his independence, all 
his sordid selfishness, appear hke ghosts to his 
mind and mock him. What have they brought 
him, these phantoms of his life, to cheer and sup- 
port him in these his needy days ? Nothing, ab- 
solutely nothing ! 

He gets up at last, and in a sudden impulse 
turns him to the door. The words engraven on 
that yellow wall, which he has passed unheedingly 
so often, flash into his mind, " Ma maison sera 
appelee la maison de priere." 

He is not a Frenchman, but he knows their 
meaning, for a little cheerful son of France years 
ago, translated them for him, and, though ignored, 
they have not been forgotten. So he goes in, into 
the Old Cathedral. In one of its darkest corners 
he sits down. Its stately ceremonials, its gloomy 
splendor, its altars, candles, gilt and glitter, and 
monotonous chant are lost upon him. He only 
thinks of the graven words above the old church 
door, " My house shall be called the house of 



62 BETWEEN TIMES. 

prayer." What shall he pray for, that old man ? 
He clasps his hands over the knob of his stick, 
and lets his head rest upon them. In all the chain 
of prayers that binds the earth to heaven, he can 
remember but one solitary link, it is, "God be 
merciful to me a sinner ! " So changed at heart, 
so humbled in his pride, so broken in his spirit is 
old Snarlet that he repeats that prayer ; fervently, 
earnestly, tearfully, full twenty times. Then, with- 
out so much as a look at the splendid altar and 
the flaming candles, he goes out, and shuffles on 
toward his old, dusty, cob-webbed warehouse. 

But here, whatever animation he has lacked, is 
suddenly supplied by an appalling sight. For a 
great noise all at once arises ; men and boys run 
like wild ; bells begin to ring, and in a moment 
more the engine dashes by, drawn by four power- 
ful horses, who gallop on like wild, and old Snarlet 
turning the corner of the street, sees to his dismay, 
the red flames leaping from the roof of his gloomy 
warehouse. 

Snarlet forgets his age, forgets his weakness, for- 
gets his melancholy, forgets everything, except 
that in the old cracked desk, locked up in a strong 
irpn box, lies all of his worldly wealth. He has no 
bank account, for in his universal distrust of man, 
he would let no one guard his money but himself. 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 63 

And now ! He sees the fire creeping nearer to the 
corner of the building where the office is. Roused 
into action by this siglit, he hurries forward as well 
as he can, and before the horror-stricken crowd are 
aware of his intention, he has reached the door, un- 
locked it, opened it. Then he enters, and as he 
does so, a cloud of black smoke comes pouring out. 
A thrill of horror runs through the crowd ! It 
surges with excitement. They believe that Snarlet 
has gone in to certain death. 

The chief of the fire-department, angry to mad- 
ness, upbraids his men for letting the old man 
pass ; commands them to go in and save him, and 
calls on the police for help. They do try, but are 
appalled by the darkness of the out -pouring smoke 
and the lurid light behind it. 

" It's no use," says an old veteran of many fires, 
" he's gone ! " 

But at this moment another form darts forward. 
They see him as he springs to the door, and then, 
like Snarlet, he is lost to sight as he enters. 

A deep silence falls upon the human sea, a si- 
lence that is more eloquent than words, until, quite 
beyond all expectation, the young man appears, 
staggering beneath a burden, (the luckless Snarlet), 
at sight of whom the strained silence is broken, 
and such a shouting and noise ensues as is heard 



64 BETWEEN TIMES. 

but seldom anywhere. But the box is not in Snar- 
let's hands. The old man's wealth is lost in fire 
and smoke, forever ! 



PICTURE IV. * 

THE CHANGE OF LIFE. 

An old man, lying on a bed, in a richly furnished 
room. A lady sitting by the bedside, watch- 
ing him. The old man turns and opens his 
eyes, and looks around in bewildered astonishment. 
The lady takes one of his wrinkled hands in her 
own and kisses it fondly. This, more than any- 
thing else, surprises the old man, and Snarlet asks 
— for it is Snarlet — speaking feebly, — 

" Where am I .? " 

Then the lady turns her face toward his. Snar- 
let's heart leaps strangely. He stretches forth his 
hands. The unutterable loneliness breaks into 
sound, in one intense and passionate cry, — 

" My daughter ! " 

" Father, dear father !" cries the lady, and they 
are in each other's arms. 

When they are composed enough to speak, they 
tell each other all. She hears the sad story of his 
later years, and of his changed heart, the result of 



THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 65 

his decrepit solitude. Slie tells him all her own 
story. How, after he had rejected her for the last 
time, she had struggled through poverty and dis- 
tress for four long years. How, when it was least 
expected, she was suddenly put in possession of 
a valuable mine, once the property of her husband, 
and considered, until recently, quite worthless. 
How, being rich and comfortable, her thoughts had 
turned with kindness to her father. The hope of 
seeing him once more had drawn her hither. How 
her own son, going forth to seek him at his place of 
business, had found him there prone on the floor 
of his office, in the burning building, and almost 
suffocated by the smoke. And how, forgetting 
everything that was past, Snarlet's rejected daugh- 
ter had taken Snarlet into her house. 

"And there you shall remain, dear father, and 
want for nothing, as long as you may live." 

Snarlet begins to beg her pardon, but she will 
not hear of it ; he begins to thank her, and she 
playfully puts her hand upon his mouth so that he 
cannot speak. 

" You are my father," she says simply ; " that is 
enough." 

And so the closing years of his life are bright, 
and peaceful, and happy. And if you were to meet 
Snarlet, and would ask him the meaning of his 



66 BETWEEN TIMES. 

altered countenance, he would take you by the 
hand and lead you to the Old Cathedral, and, rais- 
ing his cane, without a single word, point to those 
sacred words engraven on that yellow crumbling 
wall, — 

^^ Ma maison sera appelee la maison de priere!' 



V- 

BEN SICKLES. 




R. Ben Sickles was a young man of doubt- 
ful natural appearances. That is, his fea- 
tures were of that uncertain character 
which left it a question of some doubt to what par- 
ticular class of features his belonged. His mous- 
tache, though graceful withal, showed a remark- 
able tendency to turn down at one end while it 
manifested a similarly strong determination to 
turn up at the other ; his hair was of that uncer- 
tain color which may be auburn, red or brown, or 
neither ; his eyes were sometimes brown and some- 
tirhes blue, or so it seemed, though herein the 
chronicle may be mistaken ; and his nose, which 
started out with the good intention of being a 
Roman, suddenly changed into a Grecian and 



BEN SICKLES. 67 



ended with the undignified bluntness of an uncom- 
promising pug". Yet notwithstanding all this, Mr. 
Ben Sickles was a good-looking gentleman and 
was "some" with the ladies. This was an expres- 
sion which Mr. Ben Sickles and gentlemen of his 
stamp were much in the habit of using, though its 
peculiar meaning was only understood by the ini- 
tiated. In fact, Mr. Ben Sickles was a young gen- 
tleman of acknowledged abilities and made his 
dashing impression upon everybody, with the ex- 
ception of one solitary person. That one person, 
whose obtuseness to the irresistible qualities and 
unmistakable merits of Mr. Ben Sickles was a con- 
tinual subject of remark between Mr. Ben Sickles 
and his nearest friends, was " the old man." " The 
old man," was the person from whom Mr. Ben 
Sickles gracefully earned his livelihood, by being 
perched all day on a high stool and manipulating 
a black octagon ruler. It must be confessed that 
the amount of ink which was displayed upon the 
leaves of the books of which Mr. Ben Sickles had 
charge was a most extraordinary sight ; inasmuch 
as ink-blots and bloated capital letters seemed de- 
termined upon a war of rivalry and therefore were 
fast filling all the pages, but with poor success for 
the bloated capitals who, being weak in the bowels 
and empty in the stomach, were fast being out- 



68 BE TWEE A' TIMES. 

numbered by their strong and energetic rivals, the 
well-fed blots. And upon the appearance of these 
capitals and blots, the " old man " was wont to hold 
forth in lengthened discourse upon the duty of 
clerks in general and Ben Sickles in particular. 
For this and sundry other reasons, the " old man " 
was the bane of Mr. Ben Sickles' existence. 

Therefore, when the old man put on his coat 
and hat one fine morning and said, " Ben, I'll be 
gone till one o'clock, take care of the office," it is 
not at all surprising that Mr. Ben Sickles spun 
round and off of his stool with such joyful violence 
that he lost his balance and plunged head first 
under the old man's desk. Recovering himself he 
inserted his hands into his pockets and strode up 
and down the room with an air of proprietorship 
which Mr. Ben Sickles never assumed in the pres- 
ence of the old man, for the obvious reason that 
the old man would not have allowed it. In the 
exhilaration of his feelings, Mr. Ben Sickles was 
guilty of a few extravaganzas which to an" audience 
might have been highly amusing, inasmuch as his 
proprietary walk gradually merged into a hop-skip- 
and-jump, and from that into a most undignified 
and unmistakable double-shuffle ; added to which 
he performed some of the most astonishing muscu- 
lar and sleight-of-hand feats such as balancing the 



BEN SICKLES. 69 



office stools on his nose, juggling with inkstands, 
and throwing knives into an effigy of the "old 
man " on the wall with a precision only to be ac- 
quired by long practice ; and a young lady, who 
had entered softly unobserved, burst into a scream 
as Mr. Ben Sickles turned a back somersault and 
came down within an inch of her nose. 

"I — I — beg pardon," stammered Mr. Ben 
Sickles, " I ^- 1 — was not aware of the presence of 
a lady." 

Mr. Ben Sickles could not have looked more con- 
fused if the " old man " had caught him in the act. 

" I came to inquire," said the young lady, evi- 
dently regarding Mr. Sickles with an eye of sus- 
picion, and prudently keeping her hand on the 
door-knob, " whether Mr. Thompson is in." 

Mr. Thompson was the name of the old man. 

"The old m — I mean — a — Mr. Thompson 
is out at present. Will you take a seat Miss — 
Ma'am that is — I mean — Madam," said Mr. 
Sickles, still overpowered under the remembrance 
of his recent athletic performances. 

" I don't know," said the young lady hesitatingly. 
" Will he be in soon .-• " 

" He won't be in till one o'clock," replied Mr. 
Sickles, recovering his composure somewhat. 

" Oh, dear, and its only twelve now } But I 



70 BETWEEN TIMES, 

might as well wait for him — that is — ■ " (with a 
roguish twinkle), " if I am not in your way, sir." 

" Not at all," said Mr. Sickles blushing like a 
school-girl, " I don't often keep circus here and it 
don't last long. Take this seat Miss — I mean 
Madam. If I knew where he had gone to I'd send 
for him but I don't know." 

" Oh, never mind," said the young lady taking 
the chair, " I am very much obliged to you." 

She was a very beautiful young lady, and Mr. 
Sickles could not but help wondering what such a 
pretty lady had to do with an old curmudgeon like 
the old man. 

Mr. Sickles wondering in this manner and with 
his circus-like recreations thus disturbed went 
quietly back to his desk and perched himself upon 
his high stool, from which elevated position he had 
an unobstructed view of the arena before him 
where he had displayed such agile tendencies. 
But the centre of attraction in this arena was the 
young lady, and Mr. Sickles soon found it almost 
impossible to keep from looking at her — she was 
so very pretty. This was rather an embarrassing 
performance as, nine times out of ten, when Mr. 
Sickles raised his eyes to look at the young lady, 
most singularly enough the young lady's eyes were 
just raised to look at him — and in such cases their 



BEN SICKLES. 71 



eyes dropped while they mutuall}^ colored in con- 
fusion. A bright idea struck Mr. Sickles. Mr. 
Sickles was a man of bright ideas — though that 
wooden-headed and obtuse individual, the old man, 
would not acknowledge it and consequently kept 
Mr. Sickles' salary down in proportion. Alighting 
from his stool Mr. Sickles took the daily paper and 
strode to the young lady. 

"Here is the paper Miss — Madam, I mean, — 
perhaps this may help you to pass the time until 
the old — a — Mr. Thompson comes." 

" Thank you," said the young lady. 

For a little while the paper did its duty and Mr. 
Sickles looked at the lady and wondered as he 
looked to his heart's content. But at last this ruse 
failed and Mr. Sickles and the young lady became 
mutually embarrassed again. But what was the 
matter with the old man. One o'clock, two o'clock, 
three o'clock, and still no sign of him, and the 
pretty young lady patiently waiting. At last 
Mr. Sickles became tired of sucking the ink from 
the end of his ruler and staring the lady out of 
countenance, these two arduous labors having 
steadily employed his mental and physical faculties 
for the last two hours and a half, and sliding from 
his stool, the seat of which was brightly polished 
from the frequency with which Mr. Sickles slid off 



72 BETWEEX TIMES. 

and on, approached and seating himself in the only 
remaining chair in the office, which was a dilapi- 
dated bar-room chair, opened the following remark- 
able conversation. 

" The old — I mean Mr. Thompson seems to be 
detained." 

" Yes, he seems to be," said the young lady in 
answer to this self-evident fact. 

There followed a pause of five minutes during 
which Mr. Sickles anxiously scanned the opposite 
side of the street while the young lady narrowly 
examined the hem of her garment. 

" Rather bad weather we're having now," said 
Mr. Sickles with a frown. 

" Rather bad," assented the young lady. 

" But then I expect it will clear up soon." 

" Oh, yes," said the lady, hopefully. 

" It's warmer to-day than it was yesterday." 

" Oh, much warmer ! " with animation. 

" But this cool breeze we're having makes it 
rather chilly." 

" Quite so, indeed ! " 

Another pause of five minutes, during which 
their eyes met, causing great confusion. The sub- 
ject of the weather being exhausted Mr. Sickles 
turned his attention to business. 

" The weather being such and other circum- 



BEN SICKLES. 73 

stances combined have a tendency to make busi- 
ness very dull." 

" So I suppose," said the young lady. 

That answer sounded suspicious, and Mr. Sickles 
looked at the young lady sharply. Was she think- 
ing of that back somersault. But no — her face 
was innocent and Mr. Sickles' suspicions were 
lulled. From business Mr. Sickles came to politics. 

" Besides the election takes up considerable 
attention. There's Shooks running for mayor 
against Tubbs. But I think Tubbs stands the best 
chance. Don't you .'' " 

" I presume so," said the young lady. 

"Presume!- oh, you mustn't presume!" said Mr. 
Sickles warming with the subject. " You see, 
there's no use talking, Tubbs has got the best of it 
every way. He's got more friends than Shooks 
has and he's got more money than Shooks has. 
Of course, I don't deny that Shooks is a strong 
man, for he undoubtedly is. He always was a 
stroiig man, and I guess when you get him in his 
ward meetings amongst his own friends he's the 
strongest man there. But come to set himself to 
Tubbs and he's nothing — he's absolutely nowhere. 
Because, you see, Tubbs is so much stronger and 
he's got money and knows how to use it. Tubbs 
stands on his bottom, you know." 



74 BETWEEN TIMES. 

" Oh, yes," said the lady catching the last sen- 
tence, " except when you turn them over you 
know." 

" Ma'am ? " said Mr. Sickles looking puzzled. 

" It's much better too to set them on their sides 
or turn them over on their edges, A washtub 
soon falls to pieces if you don't." 

Mr. Sickles burst into a loud laugh. He couldn't 
help it. "I was — Ha — Ha — excuse me, Miss, 
I'm speaking of Tom Tubbs, candidate for mayor 
Ha — Ha, and you're speaking of a washtub." 

The lady looked a little perplexed at first but Mr. 
Sickles' laugh was catching and she joined in with 
him. There is no introduction which accomplishes 
so much as a mutual hearty laugh and so the pretty 
young lady and Mr. Ben Sickles after their laugh 
were as unembarrassed as they could be and the 
conversation, which had lagged and jolted over the 
rough stones of weather, business and politics, now 
rolled along pleasantly on the broad, smooth road 
of good-humor. 

But the time flew and still the old man did not 
come ; and at length the shadows deepened in the 
office and the sound of the six o'clock bell heralded 
the time for closing. 

" I'm sure I don't know what to do, Mr. Sickles," 
said the young lady. " It's so late and I'm a 



BEN SICKLES. "][ 



stranger to the city — I do wonder where Mr. 
Thompson is. He was to take me to my aunt's 
house." "Do you know where your aunt lives.''" 
inquired Mr. Sickles. 

" I have her address — 1623 Washington St. ; but 
I'm afraid I cannot find it alone." 

" If you will permit me, Miss Rosely, I shall be 
happy to accompany you and show you the way," 
said Mr. Sickles, which was proof that the gallantry 
had not yet been crushed from Mr. Sickles' poetic 
soul. 

"A thousand thanks, Mr. Sickles, I shall be 
ever so much obliged to you," said Miss Rosely, in 
such a sweet manner and with such a smile that 
Mr. Sickles would like to have done nothing for 
the rest of his natural life but show her the way to 
her aunt's. It being so late — the porter waiting 
impatiently for Mr. Sickles to leave the olSce so 
that he could lock the doors and go home to his 
wife and six little ones (by the way, why ivill the 
poorest people have the largest number of children 1) 
Mr. Sickles locked the safe, gave the inky ruler a 
parting suck, and in so doing gave his polished 
stool a parting rub and offering his arm to the 
pretty lady, left the arena of his athletic triumphs. 

That walk was the pleasantest Mr. Sickles had 
had in a long time, and the more he spoke to the 



76 BETWEEN TIMES. 

young lady the more he became impressed with 
her amiableness and beauty. 1623 Washington 
street was reached all too soon, though the reader 
may take my word for it that they did not run very 
fast. And Mr, Sickles had the pleasure of witness- 
ing Miss Rosely fall into the arms of a scraggy, 
sharp-featured female, whom she called her aunt, 
and kiss her with a warmth which brought tears to 
his eyes. Mr. Sickles left, but not before he had 
received an invitation to call upon her, which he 
gladly accepted. The next day the " old man " 
was in a most disagreeable humor, and found more 
fault with Mr. Sickles during the morning than 
he had found for the whole week preceding. At 
last Mr. Sickles in sheer desperation told him 
about the lady's visit on the previous day. Mr. 
Thompson's face expressed great astonishment 
during the recital of this visit and when Mr. Sickles 
had finished, he ejaculated, "The mischief! Why 
I went to the depot to meet her and stayed there 
until eight o'clock." 

A light dawned upon Mr. Sickles. 

" Why, she was here and waited until six o'clock 
for you," he said. 

"And where did she go to then.''" asked Mr. 
Thompson, 

" Why, she went to her aunt's on Washington 
street." 



BEN SICKLES. 77 



Mr. Thompson groaned. 

" Who in the world took her there .-' " 

" Why, I did," said Mr. Sickles. 

" I've a mind to knock your head off, for doing 
it," said the " old man " fiercely and then groaned 
again. 

Mr. Sickles wondered what it all meant, and had 
an itching desire in the end of his fingers to pick 
up his much-sucked ruler and give Mr. Thompson 
a poke with it, for acting so perplexingly foolish. 

At last the old man rose to explain. 

"The long and short of it, Sickles, is this," said 
he, " Lily Rosely is my brother's child. She is also 
the child of the sister of that old vinegar face that 
she calls aunt, so you see we both have an equal 
right to her. She's a very lovely girl and we think 
a great deal of her. But old vinegar face cordially 
hates me and I sincerely detest her and so we have 
agreed to disagree and have nothing to do with 
each other. But now Lily is an orphan and she is 
to live with one or the other of us, and she's such a 
good girl that we both want her. That's the 
reason I haunted the depot all yesterday afternoon, 
if possible to catch her and keep her out of the 
clutches of that maiden aunt who never will do her 
any good, but who will hold on to her like a bull- 
dog to a cow's tail — excuse the comparison. Now 



7S BETWEEN TIMES. 

we are both her guardians, but she is allowed to 
choose with whom she may desire to live. What 
shall I do ? " 

" Why don't you write her to come to your 
house ? " suggested Mr. Sickles. 

" Yes, but how am I to get an invitation to her, 
and how shall I persuade her to come," and once 
more Mr. Thompson groaned. 

" I've got an invitation to call on her," hinted 
Ben. 

"You have ! " cried Mr. Thompson, brightening 
up — " I'll tell you what I'll do, Ben. If you 
succeed in getting her out of the clutches of that 
aunt I'll reward you well. I'll give you an interest 
in the business — see if I don't." 

" I'll try," said Mr. Sickles, feeling as if he'd like 
to turn three back somersaults hand running, and 
relieve his over-burdened feelings with two or three 
Indian war-whoops. 

Mr. Sickles soon called upon Lily Rosely and 
passed one of the pleasantest evenings of his life, 
but felt something like a felon, when he thought of 
his secret mission ; and every time the old aunt 
who was really a kind old lady showed him some 
attention it was a pang in his heart. In a few days 
Mr. Sickles u^on invitation called again and spent 
another pleasant evening, and soon thereafter Mr. 



BEN SICKLES. 79 



Sickles became a regular visitor and called as often 
as three times a week. Of course we cannot main- 
tain that Mr. Sickles' zeal for the interests of his 
employer impelled him to visit Lily so often. And 
if in the interest of this pursuit there was attached 
for Mr. Sickles a pleasure which was purely personal, 
who shall blame him — and if in the desire to 
possess Lily Rosely there entered a third person in 
the lists and his name was Sickles, who will be 
surprised or say unnatural ! or ungrateful ! And so 
it was. For Mr. Ben Sickles finding Lily more 
and more lovable as each day passed by, became 
at last fully persuaded that, much as the old aunt 
or the "old man" might want Lily, he wanted her 
much more than either of them did, and pressed 
his suit accordingly. 

And what lady could withstand the pleading of 
such a gallant as Ben Sickles .^ Surely Lily could 
not. Especially since she had learned to love him 
with all her heart — and so when Ben plead with 
her, he soon had her in his arms and felt light- 
hearted enough to turn twenty-five back somersaults 
without pausing for breath. 

" Oh, what will aunt and uncle say," said Lily 
suddenly, after they had been in elysium twenty- 
seven minutes — by the clock. 

"Say! What can they say?" said Mr. Sickles. 



8o BETWEEN TIMES. 

" Oh I'm so afraid they'll be angry," said Lily. 

" Angry ! oh, no. It's the best thing could 
happen to them. I'll tell you why." And then 
Mr. Sickles divulged the plot between himself and 
the " old man." 

At first Lily listened with astonishment, but as 
Ben proceeded her face brightening she threw her 
arms around his neck and said, — 

" Oh dear, I'm so glad it has happened so. Be- 
cause you see if I stayed here uncle would always 
be angry and if I stayed with uncle, aunt would be 
displeased, but when I'm with you (here Lily 
became a Rose) they will both come to see me and 
I'll make friends of them yet." 

"And if there's anybody can do it, it's you, my 
dear," said Ben. 

Of course the aunt cried a little to think that Lily 
should leave her so soon, and just -when she was 
beginning to enjoy such pleasant companionship to 
be left solitary and alone again. 

Of course the old man stormed and called Mr. 
Ben Sickles a traitor and said he didn't deserve his 
position, etc., but Mr. Sickles easily demonstrated 
to him that it was the best thing that could be done 
under the circumstances and the storm soon blew 
over. 

And at last it came about as Lily had said--- the 



BEN SICKLES. 8 1 

" old man " (as Ben still persisted in calling him) 
and the old aunt frequently met at Lily's house 
through her little strategies, and though there was 
at first a most dignified demeanor and uncomfort- 
able coldness between them it was soon dispelled 
through Lily's gentle words and pleasant smiles and 
they became fast friends. And often she has them 
both roaring with laughter when she tells about 
Mr. Sickles' wonderful gymnastic performances 
when she first saw him, and relates the narrow 
escape of her nose. 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



SKETCHES. 



SKETCHES. 




VI. 

UZZLERY. 

N the margin of the sea, and between the 
rapid waters of two rivers, stands a grand 
and glorious city. And once upon a time, 
within the boundaries of this great city, far-famed 
Uzzlery held sway. 

What Uzzlery might be was to the common 
mind of man a strange, unfathomable mystery. 
Except that Uzzlery was very great ; except that 
Uzzlery was very strong ; except that Uzzlery had 
undisputed power in the city, and infested every 
nook and corner in it ; and except that Uzzlery 
was very ugly, and uniformly blighted everything 
it touched, no other fact was known of Uzzlery, 
except, indeed, that it was very dark. 

Softly at times, and at times noisily, did the bil- 
lows of the ocean roll before that grand and glo- 
rious city ; gracefully the ships of every nation 
rode at anchor in its harbor ; incessantly the feet 



86 BETWEEN TIMES. 

of thousands echoed in its broad and spacious 
streets ; unending was the din of traffic, and the 
noise of trade, and over and above, and through it 
all, reigned Uzzlery. 

In houses of the rich, where marble meets with 
marble, and gold is lavishly displayed ; in houses 
of the poor, decaying like their inmates, and, like 
them, meagre, dirty, old, and wretched ; in houses 
of the devil, where temptation led the way to ruin ; 
in houses of the Lord, whose church spires tapered 
to the sky, in each and all of these lived Uzzlery. 

Hundreds for the first time saw the light of day 
in that great city ; hundreds saw it for the last 
time, and were mourned, regretted, and forgotten ; 
and with them, yet not of them ; in their midst, 
yet neither living with the living nor dying with 
the dead — was Uzzlery. The government of that 
great city was in the hands of Uzzlery. The edu- 
cation of the children, good or bad, was its especial 
care ; the morals of the people, their aims, hopes, 
and desires, were all controlled by Uzzlery. 

Such, in its halcyon days, was Uzzlery. 

How it has fallen from its high estate ; how all 
its power is fading in the city ; how " there are 
none so poor as to do it reverence ; " listen, ye who 
would be wise, and learn ; for this is the legend of 
mysterious Uzzlery. 



UZZLERV. 87 

When Uzzlery was at its strongest and its best, 
when all the city was within its grasping hand, 
when all its edicts were a law to men, its chieftain's 
name was Muzzle. 

Great was Muzzle in the city. By what means 
Muzzle had arisen to this pinnacle, no man knew 
except the faithful in the bonds of Uzzlery. Yet, 
that Muzzle adorned his great position well, could 
never be disputed. Muzzle's office in the city, 
with the help of Uzzlery, was the iniportant one 
of supervisor. 

In the arduous duties pertaining to this ex- 
haustive ofifice, Muzzle called on Uzzlery to help, 
him, and forthwith from its deep, dark shadows 
came assistance in the shape of Nuzzle, Puzzle, 
Fuzzle, and Guzzle. Great was the city in the 
care of these five worthies, and very great, indeed, 
was Uzzlery. It went forth and cast its shadow 
over all the people. It strode into the schools, 
and seeing certain school-books which it did not 
like, took them away, and they were seen no 
more ; it selected men as candidates for offices, 
and said to all the city : "These are the men I wish 
elected ; vote for them." And men, crushed be- 
neath the hands of Muzzle, Puzzle, and their fel- 
lows, did as Uzzlery commanded. 

Millions upon millions poured into the city cof- 



88 BETWEEN TIMES. 

fers, but it was not enough for Uzzlery. For 
Muzzle and his fellows took the millions that the 
people paid, and built themselves great mansions 
on the hills. But while Uzzlery and its disciples 
were swiftly growing rich, the city was as swiftly 
growing poor. And there came a time when men 
became suspicious, and darkly hinted of distrust 
of Uzzlery. 

Then Uzzlery, strong in its own conceit, laughed 
long and loud. And when the people, growing 
bold in desperation, came to Muzzle, he blandly 
smiled, and bowed them to the door ; and when 
they went to Puzzle, that gentleman confused them 
with many unintelligent remarks. Nuzzle was 
silent, and only stared them out of countenance ; 
while the fiery Fuzzle flew into a rage, and the 
intoxicated Guzzle only jabbered nonsense. 

Then the people, long suffering under oppress- 
ion, now strong in indignation, rose impulsively, 
and seized on Muzzle and his friends, and sub- 
jected them to trial. And when it was discovered 
that they had stolen millions from the city treas- 
ury, they were condemned and sent to prison. 

And so the power of Uzzlery was broken in that 
grand and glorious city that stands upon the mar- 
gin of the sea, between the waters of two rapid 
rivers. And Uzzlery is growing weaker every 



MR. CROOCHER. 89 

day ; and Uzzlery will fade from human life and 
human influence long before the people who are 
now alive shall die. But never, although Time 
rolls centuries on centuries into its grave, shall it 
fade from human memory. 

For men have found that all the mystery. of 
Uzzlery was only robbery. 



VII. 
MR. CROOCHER. 




IRADITIONALLY, Mr. Croocher's office 
is on Wall street. This tradition, gather- 

* ing force from the association of a little, 
dim, back office, with the name of Mr. Croocher 
inscribed upon the dusty windows, which further- 
more bear the gilded legend: "Gold and Stock 
Broker," is accepted by the noisy tribe that hover 
near the Gold Board, as an article of faith. 

Moreover, it has been currently reported that 
Mr. Croocher has been seen emerging from this 
little office at the usual hour, and hurrying on 
'Change. Certain gentlemen, however, who have 
a great desire to converse with Mr, Croocher, and 



go BETWEEN TIMES. 

who hover ceaselessly around the little office in 
the hope that Mr. Croocher may appear, do not 
hesitate to say that this report is false, and look 
upon the old traditions with the deepest scorn. 

The desire to converse with Mr. Croocher, aris- 
ing from certain small amounts against that gen- 
tleman, is so strong upon the hoverers, that the 
little dusty ofhce is never free from close inspec- 
tion, and the gilded letters are the object of pro- 
foundest interest. Mr. Croocher does not appear, 
however, and the gilded letters are fast scaling 
from the windows, and returning to that vast un- 
known of dust from which all gilded letters are 
forever unrecoverable. 

Meanwhile, where is Mr. Croocher .-* and, curi- 
osity thus stimulated, who and what is Mr. 
Croocher .-' 

As if in answer to these questions, there comes 
slinking along, upon the opposite side of the street, 
a gentleman in black. As the gentleman in black 
comes nearer, it may be observed that he was once 
a handsome man. Traces of beauty still linger in 
the fair face, which is, however, scarred and seamed. 
His beard is soft and silken, but it droops sadly, as 
if foreseeing some such fate as overtook the gilded 
letters. The black clothes upon the gentleman, it 
will be noticed, are fading, and, like himself, dis- 



MR. CROOCHER. 91 

play a tendency to droop. As he draws nearer, he 
casts a nervous glance across the way toward Mr. 
Croocher's office, and seeing the faithful guard of 
hoverers on the watch, quickens his lagging foot- 
steps and hurries out of sight. This action, if no 
other, stamps the gentleman as Mr. Croocher. 
And so, indeed, it is. 

If any one of the hoverers, more intent upon 
the studying of Mr. Croocher's habits than the 
presenting of accounts against him, should see 
him and so follow him, that hoverer would find 
that Wall street has a ghost, and that that ghost 
is Mr. Croocher. 

For it cannot be that any spirit, good or bad, 
haunts its former place of earthly happiness or 
tribulation with more faithfulness than Mr. Crooch- 
er. Up and down, up and down, on the pave- 
ments of that street of money, does Mr. Croocher 
wander, with such soft and gliding footsteps that 
no echo can survive them. Up and down, up and 
down, with the drooping beard and drooping 
clothes, the shrinking form is seen to hurry all day 
long. There seems to be no fire in those drooping 
eyes ; there seems to be no action in those nerve- 
less hands ; there seems to be no hope in Mr. 
Croocher's wrinkled face. So Mr. Croocher wan- 
ders in his ghost-like manner up and down the 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



busy streets, hiding in some nook or doorway 
when the hoverers draw uncomfortably near. So 
the ghost of Wall street wanders up and down, 
and finds no place of rest upon the earth. 

Once, and only once, a day does Mr. Croocher 
arouse himself and become excited. It is when 
the Exchange opens. Then the ghost of Wall 
street hurries in, and in a few short minutes is 
transformed into a raving maniac. 

That problematical hoverer, intent upon the 
study of the ghost he follows, would be astonished 
to behold the drooping figure stand erect and rave 
in a most unintelligible manner. He would be 
furthermore surprised to see the silent Mr. Crooch- 
er's face grow red with passion, as he shouts 
hoarsely at the top of his voice, while his hand, 
holding certain mysterious papers, shakes violently 
in the air. In the event of his allowing his eye to 
leave this alarming spectacle for a moment, he 
would see that all the room is full of maniacs. 
And that, like Mr. Croocher, they are stamping, 
dancing, shouting, roaring, tearing, yelling at each 
other in an unknown tongue, shaking their clenched 
hands in each other's faces, and behaving gen- 
erally as if they were possessed of devils. 

Closely inspected, the studious hoverer would be 
amazed to see how all the wild, excited faces had 



MR. CROOCHER. 93 



characteristics similar to Mr. Croocher's. In the 
flashing, feverish eyes ; in the blue vein, starting 
into undue prominence ; in the deep care-wrinkles 
of the face ; in the pallor near the lips ; in the 
frown upon the brow ; in the startling similarity 
of the demoniac curse, and still more demoniac 
laughter, there is a lesson that the hoverer may 
well take to heart. And when the battle of the 
stocks is over for another day, and the dreary 
room, where fortunes are more quickly lost and 
won than in any gambling den in Europe, is silent 
and deserted, the hoverer may think sadly of" the 
ghost of Wall street ; and, remembering the sim- 
ilarities he has seen, ponder deeply on that crop 
of ghosts which shall make of Wall street the 
dreariest and saddest ghosts' walk in the world. 




94 BETWEEN TIMES. 



VIII. 
BLINKS. 

LINKS — that is, Blinks of New York — 
is a citizen of the United States. 

Such parts of certain papers, tenderly 
creased in innumerable wrinkles, and carefully cov- 
ered with dirt and grease, as are still legible, indis- 
putably proclaim this fact. The date upon these 
papers, which is fast fading from them, or being 
covered up with dirt, proves that Blinks has been 
a citizen some dozen years or more. 

Blinks, therefore, being a citizen of the United 
States, boldly asserts the rights of his condition, 
and upholds his liberty, and, in so doing, gives 
vent to his opinions. 

Were the mind of all mankind the mind of 
Blinks, or were the mind of Blinks the mind of all 
mankind, there is no doubt that Blinks' opinions 
would be taken as foregone conclusions. 

The mind of man having, however, a tendency 
to run in its own channels, regardless of the mind 
of Blinks, it is quite certain that the great opinions 
fall upon the ears of the listless hearers, and that 
Blinks finds fault unheeded. For Blinks, exer- 



BLINKS. 95 

cising the prerogatives of liberty, frequently finds 
fault. 

Blinks is not prejudiced in this particular, but 
bestows his criticisms with commendable impar- 
tiality. Blinks, therefore, is bitter on the Presi- 
dent, and considers him a fool and a knave. Blinks 
holds that Congress is composed of rascals, and 
that the government is nothing but a humbug. In 
all the country Blinks can find no spot of any 
value, and in all the land no man of any virtue. 
In the expression of the great opinion. Blinks is 
known to drav/ comparisons between the old coun- 
try and the new, generally unfavorable to the 
latter. Scenery, houses, lakes, rivers, animals, 
vegetation, minerals, arts, sciences, mechanism, 
government, commerce, religion, anything and 
everything in this sad and ruinous republic, are 
no more to be compared with similar objects in 
the old country, than human beings are with an- 
gels. Following the course of Mr. Blinks' opin- 
ion, the United States is little more than a waste 
and arid plain, dotted here and there by fast- 
decaying log-huts, and overrun with criminals and 
savages. 

Nothing is as good as the old country. Do you 
wish to hear good music .-* Take Blinks' advice, 
and visit the old country. Will you see good 



96 BETWEEN TIMES. 

acting ? You cannot find it here, says Blinks ; 
go across the sea. Would you behold fine archi- 
tecture ? The old world has it, not the new. And 
so on : Blinks repeats the same advice, the same 
complaint, from day to day. 

Young America sometimes, tired ot these com- 
plaints, rises suddenly, and requests of Blinks the 
reason of his remaining in this barren land, and 
why, the pleasures of existence being so much 
greater in the old world than in the new, he does 
not return to it post haste, and grasp the happiness 
he speaks of 

Following these indignant inquiries. Young 
America desires to know why Blinks has ever 
crossed the sea at all, and why he did not stay 
where milk and honey flowed so freely .'' 

Blinks answers nothing, and is silent for a long 
time afterwards ; but nothing can repress his 
nature, and he begins again at length to make his 
criticisms and give his opinions. 

Meanwhile Young America, bearing on his coin 
the golden motto, " In God we trust," goes on in 
his accustomed way, and, notwithstanding Blinks, 
is surely growing rich and great. 




OLD FLIPPITY. 97 



IX. 

OLD FLIPPITY. 

LD FLIPPITY is very old. It is my be- 
lief that he must have heard the chimes 
upon at least some seventy New Year's 
eves. The frosts — if frost it maybe called that 
looks like summer twilight lingering upon a ripened 
harvest field — are thick upon his head. The dim- 
ness of old age is drawing slowly over his kindly- 
beaming eyes, even like a veil, and the old gold- 
rimmed spectacles (a present from his wife, now 
in her rest, praise God, a score of years,) are fail- 
ing in their powers. Therefore Old Flippity, 
peering into the growing darkness of his life, leans 
forward as he walks, and is becoming bent of form, 
and nervous. His cheeks are falling in ; his lips 
are growing thin ; the wrinkles in his sallow face 
are working deeper, and the clothes which once 
were so well filled hang limp and spiritless upon 
his aged limbs. 

To all appearance, then, Old Flippity is past his 
serviceable time, and has no object now to live for, 
and may as well grow gloomy and morose, and 
bitterly exclaim that all is vanity, and that the 



98 BETWEEN TIMES. 

thorns are sharp long after all the roses have 
expired. 

But, bless your heart, Old Flippity would smile 
to hear you say so, and even while smiling would 
hasten to explain that you are wrong, quite wrong. 
For as to pleasure, why, he has _ never had more 
pleasure than he has now ; and as to happiness, 
why, he was never happier. Why, do not the chil- 
dren fly to meet him, all along his homeward route 1 
Do they not hang about him, and push him, until 
he is in great danger of falling down upon them ? 
Why is it they love him so ? Old Flippity can- 
not tell. But that they do love him no one can 
doubt who has seen them clap their little hands, 
and cry, as they boisterously charge upon hifn, 
" Uncle Philip ! Uncle Philip ! Here comes Un- 
cle Philip ! " Of course, it is true that Uncle 
Philip — corrupted by certain young men, whose 
most important employment in life is to tell vulgar 
stories about young ladies, and smoke cigarettes, 
into Old Flippity — generally has his pockets full 
of wonderful curiosities, which he is never tired of 
showing to the children, and that he is deeply 
versed in all the mysteries of " King William was 
King James's son," and " London Bridge is falling 
down." 

Uncle Philip — or Old Flippity, it matters very 



OLD FUPPITV. 99 

little which — earns a scanty living from having 
charge of two ponderous volumes, which lie upon 
the furthest corner of a desk in the interior of a 
dark, long little den on Third street. The dark 
little den being a bank, Old Flippity's duties ex- 
tend to the discount and collection department. 
He is not quick at figures. He is no brilliant 
arithmetician. He goes slowly up and down one 
column several times before he dares conclude that 
the addition is correct ; and as to interest, it is 
the daily nightmare — if such a thing can be — of 
his life. Still, Old Flippity stays, because his 
daily bread depends upon it. And the 'bankers 
keep him, because he works for very little salary. 
This reason, in addition to a feeling of gratitude 
for a service rendered them a dozen years ago, 
causes the bankers to retain Old Flippity as long 
as he is able to remain. 

The service which Old Flippity rendered may 
be briefly told. One September evening, Old 
Flippity, poring late over his books at the bank, 
with no one near but the janitor, was surprised to 
hear something fall. Looking hastily up, he was 
still more surprised to see the janitor lying stunned 
upon the floor, while two villanous-looking men 
standing over him were pointing pistols at Old 
Flippity's head. The sight was such a strange 



100 BETWEEN TIMES. 

one, that Old Flippity could only stare in silence. 
"Old man," said one of the men, "you've got a 
key to that vault. Open it, quick." 

Instantly the sense of duty flashed into Old 
Flippity's mind. " I will not do it," he said. 
With an oath, the leader again commanded him to 
do it, adding, " If you don't, we'll blow the top of 
your head off." 

" I will not do it," once more sturdily answered 
Old Flippity. 

"Jack," said the man who had before spoken, 
" we'll give the old man three minutes. If he 
don't open that safe in three minutes, we fire. 
Now, old man ! " 

Old Flippity stood there quietly in the presence 
of possible death. The loud ticking of the clock 
upon the wall sounded to Old Flippity like the 
knocking of the dark angel at his heart. Fifty, 
one hundred, one hundred and fifty, — how fast 
the seconds flew ! One hundred and sixty, seventy, 
seventy-five, — the men were taking aim, — eighty! 

" Well," said Old Flippity, " hold ! Here is the 
key," — and he slowly drew it from his pocket, — 
" here is the key. Consider what you are doing, 
friends. This is a crime and a sin ; consider, be- 
fore it is too late." 

" Open the vault ! " 



OLD FLIP PITY. lOl 



" And you will not be turned from your wicked 
purpose ? " 

" Open the vault, I say, or I shoot ! " 
" Then there is the key ; and fire, if you will," 
cried Old Flippity. And suddenly raising his 
hand, he hurled the vault-key through the plate- 
glass window into the middle of the street. This 
action, so unexpected, caused the robbers to look 
undecidedly at each other. Then their first im- 
pulse was to murder the brave old man. But at 
that moment, two policemen, and a number of cit- 
izens who had been attracted by the noise of 
breaking glass, came running into the bank, and 
Old Flippity's life was saved. Thus even a weak 
old man may be good for something. And cer- 
tainly it does one good to know that in the bent 
and feeble form of such a person as Old Flippity 
there hides a faithful servaiit, and a children's 
loving friend. And what can we be more .-* 



102 BETWEEN TIMES. 

X. 

BONG AND DOGGET. 




N one of the dingiest of dingy houses on 
Commercial Street, where window-glass is 
a tradition of the past, and only holes and 
dirty boards are to be seen in places ; where bricks 
are turning gray with age, excepting where they 
are streaked with black from the off-pourings of 
the dirty roof in many a summer's gush of rain 
and winter's thaw of snow ; where broken keys 
are hard to turn in ru'sty locks, and where decay- 
ing hinges are fast giving way, there are the store 
and office of the celebrated firm of Bong and 
Dogget. 

What business, it may be by which the firm of 
Bong and Dogget earn their daily bread, is a co- 
nundrum which has not yet been solved. A rash 
attempt to clear this mystery by a glance at Bong 
and Dogget's stock-in-trade, would lead to an igno- 
minious failure. For, there being in Bong and 
Dogget's place only a long and blank perspective 
of two dirty walls, a dirty ceiling, and a still dirtier 
floor, upon which there rests nothing but filthy 
grease-spots and a broken truck, their stock-in- 



BONG AND DOGGET. 103 

trade is clearly visionary, and not subject to the 
usual laws of business inventory. From the many 
grease-spots, on which the dust lies like mould on 
rotting food, it may be argued that the firm of 
Bong and Dogget have applied their talents to the 
profitable trade of pork. A broken egg-box near 
the door might induce the idea of produce, until a 
sight of some melancholy grains of corn and wheat 
before the door, and a straggling heap of hay in 
the unclean gutter, contain a faint suggestion that 
grain and feed are the especial care of Bong and 
Dogget. 

What Bong and Dogget may be, therefore, in a 
business meaning of the term, is a mystery, and 
will remain a mystery forever. 

The firm of Bong and Dogget is composed of Mr. 
Eong and Mr. Dogget. They have a desk or two in 
the little office, before whose windows the "Father 
of Waters " sweeps grandly down upon his never- 
ceasing journey to the sea. A little matting, very 
old and very ragged, lies upon the floor ; a broken 
chair or two sprawl recklessly upon it ; and a 
stool — which looks as if it had been in the war, in 
that two of its legs are swathed and bandaged with 
hemp twine — holds guard before a broken letter- 
press. In this luxurious palace, the firm of Bong 
and Dogget do their mysterious business. 



I04 BETWEEN TIMES. 

To assist them to master the arduous duties of 
their daily labor, they have procured the services 
of Crankie. 

Crankie is a round-shouldered, thin-legged gen- 
tleman, whose most marked characteristics are a 
shock of dry and uncombed hair, a bewildered 
face, as if he had come into the world by mistake, 
and had never recovered from his surprise, and a 
pair of restless eyes, that seem always searching 
for something, which appearance they have prob- 
ably acquired from the fact that Crankie is always 
looking for his salary. Crankie is also a mystery, 
in that no one knows how he spends his time at 
night, or where he lives. But whatever else is 
mystery in the firm of Bong and Dogget, there is 
one circumstance which is always painfully clear 
to all who have commercial dealings with it. And 
that circumstance is that Messrs. Bong and Dog- 
get very seldom pay their bills. 

Why men, and keen business men, at that, will 
trust the firm of Bong and Dogget, knowing it, is 
another of those mysteries by which this firm is 
surrounded. 

Shooks, the collector, has great trouble with the 
firm of Bong and Dogget. Shooks has an estab- 
lished reputation as being the best collector on the 
street. But Shooks is forced to acknowledge, 



BONG AND DOGGET. 105 

sometimes, that the firm of Bong and Dogget are 
too much for him. The difficulties which Shooks 
encounters in endeavoring to collect from this 
remarkable firm are innumerable. When Mr. 
Shooks enters the office briskly on the first of 
the month, he is met by the bewildered Crankie 
with the request to " leave that statement, and I'll 
check it up. Call in again." 

Mr. Shooks, smilingly agreeing with Mr. Cran- 
kie, leaves his statement, and calls again next day. 
Crankie having, in the meantime, invented a 
pleasant fiction about an unprecedented press of 
business, which has prevented him from attending 
to that little matter, entreats Shooks to call again 
next week. Shooks, in the kindness of his heart, 
and with a desire to avoid uselessly wearing out 
his shoes, waits two weeks, and is then referred by 
the wonderful Crankie to Mr. Bong. It takes two 
weeks more to catch Mr. Bong in, and Shooks is 
then referred to Mr. Dogget. Shooks lies in wait 
three days for Mr, Dogget, and at the end of that 
time is met by the blunt assertion that Mr. Dogget 
knows nothing about it, and is again referred to 
Mr. Bong. Shooks's blood being up, with a deter- 
mination not to be fooled again, he haunts Com- 
mercial Street for weeks, until he sees Messrs. 
Bong and Dogget and Crankie together in the 



I06 BETWEEN TIMES. 

office, and then charges boldly upon the dingy 
place, whereupon the inventive genius of Crankie 
discovers that a bill for one item is missing, and 
requests Mr. Shooks to bring it down. Shooks 
brings it down with a vengeance, in that he fetches 
itemized bills of the whole account. But in the 
meantime Crankie has vanished, and Messrs. Bong 
and Dogget profess their inability to pay without 
the assistance of the cashier. 

At last Shooks, grown desperate, brings down 
three days' rations in a small-sized market-basket, 
as also a plentiful supply of literature, and an- 
nounces his determination to remain until the bill 
is paid. Bong and Dogget hold out two days. At 
the expiration of that time, they gruffly tell Cran- 
kie to make out a check, dated a week ahead, for 
the amount of the account, less a reclamation for 
some imaginary damage to the goods, which is so 
palpable an invention that Crankie blushes, and 
looks uneasily out at the " Father of Waters." 

Shooks is, however, glad to get so much, and 
hurries from the place, wondering in his heart how 
in the world such firms as Bong and Dogget can 
exist. 




BONG AND DOGGET. 107 

XL 

BONG AND DOGGET. 

II. 
T is now December. Bong and Dogget 
know this. Indeed, although Bong and 
Dogget have been known to be singularly 
unfortunate in the matter of memory, especially in 
regard to sundry and divers accounts and balances 
due, which various and numerous tradesmen have 
against them, they most forcibly and intensely re- 
member that it is December. It is not that the 
mud lies almost ankle-deep on Commercial Street, 
where Bong and Dogget traditionally do their busi 
ness, for that is a phenomenon that is at present: 
almost universal in the greatest city of the West 
It is not that the houses on Commercial Alley — 
or street, as it is called — are any dirtier, or din 
gier, or older than in any other season ; for it is 
not so. They are always dirty, old, and dingy. It 
is not that the snow is here ; for the snow soon 
melts, and leaves the city in its one unchangeable 
and uniform condition — slops. It is not that the 
frost touches the windows in the office, which has 
a levee-front, for in the course of business life it 



I08 BETWEEN rn.TES. 

has transpired that such panes of glass as have not 
been broken and replaced by paper in the levee- 
front have so accumulated dust, and dirt, and 
smoke, that it would be hard to tell, even on the 
coldest day, whether the frost was on the panes or 
not. No, it is none of these that makes Bong and 
Dogget remember that it is December. No ; the 
jog to their memory is something else. It is noth- 
ing more nor less than Shocks. Shooks is a col- 
lector, and Shooks presses for his money. First, 
they bluff him. Shooks will not be bluffed. Bong 
and Dogget feel the end has come. All the year 
they have been doing business on the money and 
accommodation of other people. Where the)' 
made one dollar, they borrowed ten. They were 
great on the call-board. Oh, they were wise as 
serpents ; ay, and with such natures, too. But 
their margins go. The luck is against them. Men 
mark them, and shake their heads. Men make 
remarks to them about accounts long overdue. 
Shooks will be put off with fair promises no more. 
And the crash comes. And Bong and Dogget 
are, in business parlance, " flat upon their backs." 
Wherefore Bong and Dogget distinctly remember 
that it is December. 



MR. BLUSTER. IO9 



XII. 
MR. BLUSTER. 




IR. BLUSTER has condescended to devote 
his energies to commission. Mr. Bluster's 
specialty is grain, whereby the grain busi- 
ness has, to Mr. Bluster's mind, received a very 
valuable acquisition. Following the bent of argu- 
ment as established in the mind of Mr. Bluster, it 
is somewhat of a miracle how the grain business 
could have got along without him. For not only 
is Mr. Bluster convinced that his own particular 
business is the largest in his line, that thereby the 
business of others sinks into insignificance by way 
of comparison, but it is also clear to this talented 
gentleman that everybody but himself is doing 
business in the wrong way, and is positively cer- 
tain to emerge from that uncomfortably narrow 
aperture commonly designated as the "small end of 
the horn." 

Mr. Bluster is a gentleman of loud voice, and is 
an inhabitant of the business world somewhere on 
the borders of the old Exchange. Mr. Bluster oper- 
ates in a long, low, narrow, dirty warehouse, having 
at one end a long, low. narrow, dirty office, whose 



HO BETWEEN TIMES. 

windows overlook the river. Mr. Bluster here 
astonishes the commercial world, except such time 
as he emerges from retirement and struts on 
'Change, or puffs along the narrow causeway of 
Commercial Street. 

Mr. Bluster's chief characteristic is a peculiarly 
audible manner of relating his own adventures and 
achievements. Mr. Bluster is prone to declare, 
adding sundry and divers oaths to strengthen this 
declaration, that his business is increasing five times 
as fast as any other person's business ; that his 
profits are enormous ; that he knows whom to credit 
and whom to refuse credit, and that, figuratively 
speaking, he has a most intimate acquaintance with 
the causes which lead to the presence of the milk 
in the cocoanut. When having occasion to refer to 
statistics, Mr. Bluster indulges in thousands or 
millions. Mr. Bluster's conversation is of that 
peculiar nature that leaves the impression that 
what Mr, Bluster does not know is not worth 
knowing. 

It is a marvel, however, to those who know Mr. 
Bluster well, how he can possibly do any business 
at all, inasmuch as he was never known to possess 
much property, and has comparatively little capital. 
But Mr. Bluster sneers and brags and passes on, 
and calls men who have been plodding in the 



MR. BLUSTER. HI 



old routine for years, " old fogies." Then Mr. 
Bluster, with a high hand, speculates, and boasts 
of reaping in his thousands. So the wind-bag 
fills. 

And then, is it the wind that brings it to them 
as it sweeps across the fair broad land in fitful 
gusts, playfully uprooting century-old trees, or 
gayly carrying roofs of houses miles away ? Or can 
it be the river that bears an inkling of it as its waters 
sluggishly float by the city, eddying around the bows 
of steamboats, lazily resting at the wharves and 
going on again a little dirtier than they came ? Can 
it be that the grains of dust bear tidings of it as the 
scores of wagon-wheels disturb them in the streets 
and highways, or does it come with smoke and 
sparks of passing engines that roll across the con- 
tinent from one broad ocean to the other ? 

No ! Swifter, surer than all these, it flashes in 
an instant over miles on miles of iron wire, and 
almost in the same moment it is known in Maine 
and California that a panic is upon the people. 

There is no time to argue ; there is no time to lose. 
There is only time to act. And the first act which 
stirs the sluggish blood in numerous collectors' 
veins is a simultaneous rush to Mr. Bluster's office. 

Shooks, the redoubtable collector, is, of course, 
the foremost, and demands his money. Mr. Blus- 



112 BETWEEN TIMES. 

ter is facetious, and inquires whether he will take it 
now or wait until he gets it, 

Shooks sternly announces his desire, ability and 
determination to take it now. Mr. Bluster is on 
the point of retorting sharply when the army of 
collectors hurries in. They want their money ; 
nothing will satisfy them but money. 

Mr. Bluster is at first inclined to swell and become 
pompously indignant; but Shooks, being equal to 
the occasion, pricks the bag of wind which is in 
process of inflation by the pertinent request that 
Mr. Bluster will either pay up or shut up. After 
considerable conversation of an exciting nature, Mr. 
Bluster confesses his inability to do the former, and 
promptly does the latter. 

And it is then discovered that Mr. Bluster has 
done his business mainly with other people's money. 
For, not content with such accommodations as the 
banks have been inclined to give him, Mr, Bluster 
has purchased largely of various lines of goods for 
credit, and has disposed of them for cash ; and 
with the money so received has entered into wild 
and dangerous enterprises. And as Mr. Bluster 
has systematically avoided the payment of all debts 
as long as possible, the troop of collectors that now 
pounce upon him is very large indeed. 

The bag of wind has burst at last. 



THE OLDEST INHABITANT. II 



And the Register in Bankruptcy holds inquest 
on the pitiful remains. Whereupon the veidict is, 
" Burst through overpressure." 

Meanwhile the "old fogies" pursue the even 
tenor of their way, and leave the dangerous field 
of bluff and braggadocio to such as Mr. Bluster. 



XIII. 
THE OLDEST INHABITANT. 




S|E is. an old man, very. You will know him 
on the instant when you see him on the 
street. Not that he is so old, or that his 



locks are touched with silver ; not that his eye 
is getting feeble or that his cheeks are somewhat 
flabby ; not that one hand holds his old oaken 
cane so firmly, while the other rests beneath his 
long old vest, or, hanging at his side, swings list- 
lessly and trembles ; not these, indeed, for they 
are nothing but the common marks of age. But 
you will know him from amongst the hundreds 
that you pass, by his slow and steady step, as if in 
man's unendin:: roce with Time, he had come out 
the victor, and had no more need of haste. You 
will know him when you notice other men, them.- 



114 BETWEEN TIMES. 



selves quite old, bow to him with profound respect ; 
and you will know him surely when you see him 
stand before a gray stone house, whose panes of 
glass are cracked or broken ; whose door and win- 
dow-frames are all awry ; whose walls and roof are 
black and ugjy, and from between whose stones the 
mortar is so swiftly crumbling. 

The inhabitant stands before this house — the old- 
est of its kind, as he, too, is the oldest of his kmd 
— and mumbles something while he slowly shakes 
his head ; what time a tear may be discovered glis- 
tening in his eye, and the hand that trembles al- 
ways trembles just a little more than usual. And 
there they stand like two old faithful soldiers of 
the past whom General Time has forgotten to dis- 
charge. 

In its being one of the mementoes of his early 
life, of which there are so few existing, the old 
man loves the gray old house, for it was young 
when he was young, and now that he is old, it, too, 
is aging fast. 

Yet the old man is quite cheerful in his way, and 
if you enter into conversation you will be surprised 
to find him smart and interesting in his speech. 
He has a mind stored with the reminiscences of 
men and things long gone and long ago forgotten. 
His memory is a history of your native city that 



THE OLDEST E\'HABITANT. II5 

stretches back for threescore years and ten. And 
if you touch him lightly and are commonly re- 
spectful and attentive, you will have a fund of 
anecdotes of your father's or grandfather's time 
that will most pleasantly surprise you. 

If you will only walk a little slower, his nervous 
hand will find your arm, his other hand will rest 
less heavily upon his trusty cane, the while he 
leans on you and sauntering thus he will point out 
at every step some scene of by-gone days. 

"You see that house, my son V 

Yes — no — which "^ That tall, long row or the 
little dingy house .'* You are not sure, because he 
does not point. 

" No, no, my son. That large house with the 
rounded corners." 

Oh, yes ; why, certainly. You see it. You might 
have seen it before. You beg his pardon. 

Then the oldest inhabitant tells you that there 
(where there is now naught but banking, draying, 
commission, noise, confusion and exchange), there 
once stood a market. A little low, old market, he 
will tell you, but very good for the times when he 
was younger ; and, warming on his subject, he will 
tell you with many a quiet chuckle how he and 
Mary, his dear wife — now long since sleeping m 
Bellefontaine. God be praised — went marketing 



Il6 BETWEEN TIMES. 

when they were married ; how wise Mary was ; 
how keen he pretended to be ; and how when they 
got home they found that they had been most 
vilely swindled in everything that they had bought. 

While speaking thus, a hale and hearty man ap- 
proaches, five and-forty if he is a day, and in pro- 
portion stout and full. As he comes nearer, he 
spies you and accosts your aged friend. His voice 
is in keeping witfi his face and figure, for it has a 
round, full sound. 

"Ha, ha! Father So-and-so! Why, I'm right 
glad to see you. How do you do this morning } 
But I needn't ask, for I see you're fresh as a lark 
and bright and merry as a cricket. Ha, ha, ha ! 
That's the word, eh } Bright and merry as a 
cricket." 

The old man chuckles softly. 

" Oh, well, my son ; I'm getting old, you know. 
But, for my years, I flatter myself I am quite spry ; 
and, as you say, bright and merry as a cricket, sir, 
bright and merry as a cricket." 

Evidently the old man likes the cheery phrase. 

The stout man laughs with a sort of roar, and 
passes on, whereupon the old man tells you confi- 
dentially how he has often dandled that boy on his 
knee some twoscore years ago. It makes you feel 
quite young ; yes, very young, indeed. 



THE OLDEST INHABITANT. 11/ 



" Observe this line of houses, son." 

Yes, you observe, and are attentive. 

Then he tells you how the fire of '49 swept down 
this street and consumed the houses by the hun- 
dreds, how the river was ablaze with burning 
steamboats, how the streets were full of crying, 
rushing, shouting, crazy people, and what a time 
he had with Mary and the children to escape. If 
you can spare the time to walk a little toward the 
west, say the distance of a few short blocks, he 
will show you houses standing where, when he was 
your age, son, there was naught but water, swampy 
land or hilly forest. 

So the old man rambles on, and, if you have the 
time, will .talk to you for hours. And you cannot 
mark a single spot in this great city that has not 
a hidden story which is recorded in the archives 
of the old man's memory. 



Vmfni 



Il8 BETWEEN TIMES. 



XIV. 
THE WRECK. 

A Street Picture. 

HERE stands a wreck upon the corner of 
the street. It is a dull, damp, rainy day, 
but the wreck stands there, unmindful of 
it. The wreck being, in every sense of the word, 
a nobody, it is eminently proper that the rain 
which comes slantingly down from nowhere should 
fall upon and drench it. Being a cold, damp, un- 
comfortable rain, with an unaccountable tendency 
to come from half-a-dozen different directions at 
the same time, it gives vent to its obstinate humor 
by slashing unmercifully at the wreck, and runs in 
rills and rivulets adown his ragged back. It soaks 
the old, torn hat from which all semblance of re- 
spectability has fied full many months ago, and 
even comes oozing out of the gaping toe-holes, 
showing conclusively that it has found its way be- 
tween the tattered garments and the skin, and 
shows no mercy. 

The wreck stands there, however, unshaken by 
it all, and with its hands in two apertures which 
may, long years ago, have served for pockets, but 



THE WRECK. 1 19 



which are now nothing but miserable bottomless 
pits, stands bent and silent, like a dishrag-covered 
scarecrow, turned to stone. What the wreck is, 
where it has come from, what its destiny may be, 
no person stops a moment to inquire. 

Suddenly a lattice-door opens in a house behind 
the wreck, and a flavor of mingled whiskey, lager 
beer, and sawdust charges upon the wreck, and 
breathes a little animation into it, insomuch that 
the wreck rouses from its stony reverie, and, turn- 
ing faceward to the lattice-door, slowly enters. 
And soon thereafter a sound of mumbled words 
and clinking glass comes from behind the lattice- 
door, mingles for a moment with the sound of 
splashing rain, and then is heard no more. And 
when the wreck next comes to view, it is propelled 
by some invisible force, and flies straightway to 
the gutter, where it lies in all the wet and slush 
and flowing filth of Third Street. And now, were 
any one to ask me, curiously : " Who and what is 
this wreck ? " I could but answer, mournfully and 
tenderly, " A wreck ! " 




I20 BETWEEN TIMES. 

XV. 

MOTHER BRIGHTFACE. 

IHAT is not her name. No one has ever 
asserted that it is her name. It has never 
" yet been proved that she has any hereditary 
claim to it whatever. The person whose inventive 
genius first apphed it to her is unknown. 

Yet here she is, as bright and smiling as the day 
is long. And here she is — albeit she has never 
had a child — indisputably our own kind Mother 
Brightface. 

A cheery, bright old lady, hard upon threescore, 
beneath whose neat old-fashioned cap there can just 
be seen an edge of smooth gray hair — a gentle, 
kind old lady, in whose homely face the lines are 
lines of comfort and benevolence, and in whose eyes 
the depths of faith and hope and charity are fath- 
omless. A happy, merry, nice old lady, in whose 
voice there is a sort of music that, once heard, can 
never be forgotten. 

They who know Mother Brightface well will 
sometimes marvel how her face can always be so 
smiling ; how her voice can always be so cheerful ; 
hov/, indeed, she can be always Mother Brightface. 



MOTHER BRIGHTFACE. 121 

For, knowing that the blessing of a child has been 
denied her, although she has been married forty 
years, it is almost expected that Mother Brightface 
should, in growing old, grow gloomy and morose : 
but this is a mistake, as Mother Brightface is often 
heard to say. 

Now wherein lies the secret of her happiness ? 

Ah ! my stiff and steady brother, let me tell you 
what her secret is. 

Mother BrigJitface loves the children. 

And in turn the children pour out all the love 
their little hearts contain for Mother Brightface, 
She goes and finds them wheresoever they may be. 
She calls them by their names. She pats their lit- 
tle matted heads and showers kisses on their faces, 
knowing that with all their grime and dirt they are 
more pure than many an older child whose face is 
scrupulously clean. She hunts them up in alleys 
and in by-ways, and in her human fisheries quite 
often brings up pearls when she has only sought for 
shells. She is a party to their budding hopes, she 
is a comfort to them in their childhood's sorrows ; 
yes, she is the friend to whom the little children go. 

While Deacon Scramm and Parson Poak are busy 
in theology, kind Mother Brightface gives the milk 
of human kindness to many a thirsty little one, and 
in so doing finds her lonely life refreshed and com- 
forted. 



122 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Deacon Scramm anS Parson Poak are very im- 
portant personages. It can hardly be conceived 
how the world can possibly get on without them. 

The minor points of their existence are swallowed 
up in the overpowering fact that they are always at 
it — really hard at it — and, theologically speaking, 
resoundingly and poundingly hard at it. The unex- 
plainably long words which comjoose the vocabulary 
of these worthy gentlemen are a wonder to the 
world, and a confusion to the little friends of Mother 
Brightface. Indeed, so terrible does this bombard- 
ment sometimes become that these same little 
friends of Mother Brightface seem ready to drop 
from sheer amazement and perplexity. 

In the stern conviction that the whole success of 
Christ's undying gospel rests upon their shoulders, 
Deacon Scramm and Parson Poak are wont to con- 
vict mankind of being worse than fallen angels, and 
draw a dreary picture of an angry God before the 
frightened eye of childhood ; and, having created a 
lively fear, propound certain remedies in polysylla- 
bles, in which the most profound research has been 
unable to discover any meaning. 

Then Mother Brightface comes and pats the lit- 
tle heads, and with a few kind words and an inimita- 
ble smile, restores the fading hope and happiness 
again. Then Mother Brightface takes the little 



MOTHER BRIGHTFACE. 1 23 

children on her knees and tells them stories con- 
trary to the express advice of Deacon Scramm and 
Parson Poak, who think that stories are devices of 
the devil. 

Then Mother Brightface, kissing the grimy face, 
and smoothing back the tangled hair, tells them, as 
only she knows how to tell them, stories having 
reference to the old-time men of God. And how 
the little hands do clap when that great hero of the 
children, David, kills the giant for the thousandth 
time, and how the little eyes do sparkle when the 
prophet stands again unharmed amidst the lions, 
and the three fast friends endure unscathed the 
terrible ordeal of fire. But oh ! it is so sweet to see 
the little children nestle close to Mother Brightface 
as she tells them of a little child born in a manger, 
whom the wise men came to see, and following out 
this line of history relates once more the gracious 
story of the Saviour of mankind. 

Upon which performance Deacon Scramm and 
Parson Poak are wont to gaze with ominous frowns 
and shakings of the head. 

But when the little children, clambering upon her 
knee, clasp their little arms about her neck and whis- 
peringly tell her that they want to be good children, 
and do, do love dear Jesus truly, kind Mother 
Brightface has her own reward and silently thanks 
God. 



124 



BETWEEN TIMES. 




XVI. 

DAVID DAREALL. 

AVID DAREALL is a gentleman of 
robust form and hearty constitution. In 
the distribution of the gifts of God, the 
one of healtli has fallen to David's share, and has 
made a tall, broad, strapping fellow of him. Thus, 
physically, David is a giant, and figuratively .speak- 
ing, may be called a son of Anak. 

Being in personal appearance, then, so stout and 
hearty, David's mental characteristics are in keep- 
ing v^ith it, and are also of a robust nature. 

David, therefore, repudiates with vigor any puny, 
sickly feeling to which weaker mortals are addicted ; 
and stands in his own strength a beacon light to 
all mankind. 

Love, whether it be human or spiritual, is the 
especial butt of David's jokes ; which, being- 
uttered in a stentorian tone of voice, and being 
followed by a forcible and resounding guffaw, are 
characteristic of the man, and cannot help (as 
David thinks), but damage love severely. 

In his attacks upon religion, David Dareall is 
zealous and untiring — and finds an inexhaustible 



DAVID DA RE ALL. 1 25 

mine of humor in the relation of anecdotes to the 
detriment of the adherents to that old-fashioned 
superstition. Never for a day would David think 
of allowing himself to be converted ; never for a 
day does David permit himself a mom.ent's serious 
thought upon the subject — wherefore, never for a 
day does David fail to heap contumely on the heads 
of Christians and the Church. 

" Look," cries David, with a comprehensive 
sweep of the arm which includes the whole horizon, 
" at your ministers. Nothing but a set of leeches, 
who fasten themselves upon society to pluck an 
easy living from it. What good do they do .^ What 
work do they perform .'* What equivalent do they 
give for the money they receive ^ " 

It being mildly suggested that they preach the 
'gospel, visit the sick, assist the fallen, give to the 
poor, encourage the faint-hearted to renewed and 
the energetic to increased exertion, and gener- 
ally bring the thirsty to the river, and the hungry 
to the tree of life, David Dareall bursts into a 
hearty laugh, and says, — 

" Folly, folly. What dupes you people are ! 
Ministers are fashionable idlers, nothing more, and 
the sooner you find it out the better." 

" And then your churches," continues David 
Dareall, " look at them. You build them at an 



126 ■ BETWEEN TIMES. 

enormous cost ; you pack them with fashionable 
folks ; you extend no invitation to the poor ; you 
are conceited and stuck-up ! " 

These allegations being respectfully denied, 
David Dareall pooh-poohs the denial, and goes on. 

"You privilege crime of all descriptions with 
an insane promise of forgiveness. You quarrel 
amongst yourselves. No two 6f you believe alike. 
You are as inconsistent as the day is long ; and 
there are more rogues, thieves, rascals and scamps 
of all kinds in the Church than out of it." 

With which closing accusation David Dareall 
puts his hands in his pockets, and walks away be- 
fore the champion, of religion can reply. 

The champion of religion looks after David Dare- 
all v^ith a faint, sad smile, as one who would say, 
" Poor fellow — how mistaken ! " and then turning 
on his heel, goes busily about his work, quietly 
obedient to the precepts of that idle superstition 
which has held the world in thrall for eighteen 
hundred years. 

David Dareall, still sneering and still with his 
hands thrust in his pockets, goes boldly out into the 
world. In the strength of manhood, David Dareall 
saunters through the world. But danger comes to 
David Dareall, and in the strength of manhood. 
David Dareall struggles with it. But, alas, the 



DAVID DA RE ALL. 1 27 

danger is too strong, and, albeit David Dareall 
struggles manfully and with all his strength, it 
overwhelms him and descends upon him. In that 
moment there comes to God a strange wild cry for 
help. Hard to be believed, yet harder still to be 
forgotten, men hear that strange, wild cry, and 
wonder, "Can it be that David Dareall cries to 
God.'' And will God hear.-*" God hears — and 
more than this, God answers. Then the danger 
passes, and David Dareall stands erect once more 
amongst his fellow-men. 

How now about the strength of manhood ? 
What now about that idle superstition .' 
Not answering these questions, David Dareall, in 
the pride of health, walks on once more. In the 
pride of health he wanders through the slums and 
alleys of the city, where disease takes hardy root 
and desperately holds fast ; where air is but another 
name for poison, and where the black cart from the 
potter's field has far too much to do. David Dare- 
all wanders here, and in the pride of health inveighs 
against religion, charging it with all the wretched- 
ness and want, poverty, disease and crime, that have 
their woful and unhealthy growth in this sad place 
— saying that if the Christian people would attend 
to these waste places, and not spend their time in 
singing psalms and useless works like that, it would 
be better for the world. 



128 BETWEEN TIMES. 

David Dareall saunters once too often in this 
place. The evening star beholds him well and 
strong and in the pride of health. The morning 
star beholds him lying on his bed, fever burning in 
his cheeks and flaming in his eye, and when the 
evening star again beholds him he is very low. 
Lower still as night succeeds to day — lower, lower 
still as day succeeds to night ; and soon a thin, 
attenuated form lies on the bed — nigh, very nigh, 
to death. 

What wavers feebly in the sick man's room, and 
ascends unto the Father's throne .-' What ! has the 
fever touched his brain, that David Dareall prays to 
God for health } And will God answer a crazy 
prayer at the eleventh hour .'' 

God answers surely. And the morning and the 
evening stars behold the sick man slowly getting 
strong again, and singing praise, and sometimes 
falling on his knees and giving thanks. 

How now about the pride of health } 

What now about that idle superstition ? 

David Dareall answers nothing to these ques- 
tions. But he is heard to murmur fervently and 
frequently, " How weak — even in the strength of 
manhood and the pride of health — how ver}' weak 
I am." 

And at the champion of religion David Dareall 
sneers no more. 



S/STER JANE. 12^ 



XVII. 
SISTER JANE. 




EW roses gather in the path of sister Jane. 
And when, from time to time, she stoops 
to touch the few that bloom around her, it 
happens that the thorns are very sharp beneath 
their pretty leaves, or, lacking thorns, they wither 
with a touch, and die. 

Clouds very often hide the sun from sister Jane ; 
or, having shed their rain upon the earth, mist 
rises from the waters, and she cannot see. Such 
happiness as she has known is of the very dim and 
distant past, and has been in other minds long, 
long ago forgotten. But to their memories sister 
Jane clings fondly. For these memories are to 
her like flowers pressed between the • leaves of 
books, which, albeit they are faded, perfumeless, 
and dead, are cherished tenderly, in honor of the 
vanished faces that will return upon the earth no 
more, no more. 

And yet the search to find a line of sorrow or a 
trace of care on sister Jane's smooth brow must 
needs be very deep, aye, very deep and keen, to be 
successful ; and hope to find a look of trouble in 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



the soft, blue eyes, or in the quiet, gentle face, 
would meet with disappointment. For there is 
that within her, mysterious and unexplainable as it 
may be, which sheds'an air of calm contentment 
all around. And in her trustful eyes there is a 
light that none can see, and, having seen, forget. 

It is the light of Faith. 

Of all her dear ones, sister Jane has none about 
her now — not one. Some sleep peacefully in the 
quiet city of the dead, where the perfume of sweet 
flowers under weeping willows gives proof of sister 
Jane's kind care. Some rest beneath the moaning 
waters of the sea. Some are covered by the des- 
ert's burning sand. And some — God only knows — 
for to the world and sister Jane they have been lost 
forever. 

Then why is sister Jane so calm and so con- 
tented .-* And how is it the light of faith shines in 
her eye so brightly .-* Come, follow me into a 
room, not finely furnished, yet, notwithstanding, 
neat and clean. Draw nearer, softly, to the woman 
reading at the table. Glance carefully over the 
bending form, and look at the words upon which 
the trustful eyes are fixed, and read, as they are 
reading, — 

" Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke 



SISTER JANE. 131 



upon you and learn of me ; for I am meek and 
lowly in heart ; and ye shall find rest to your souls. 
For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." 

Then watch the woman slowly fall upon her 
knees and gratefully accept the gracious invitation. 
Hear the soft prayer for help and guidance ; see 
how there is a beauty in the silent quiet face, and 
behold how very, very bright the light of faith 
shines in the trustful eyes. 

Then follow warily, as rising from her knees she 
leaves the room, and goes where many a tender 
lady would not dare to go. See how she finds the 
bedside of the poor, and lifts up the desponding 
sick into the strength of brighter hopes — how she 
makes her way amongst the stricken and the fallen 
who, finding sympathy in her kind earnestness, come 
out from brooding over sorrow, even through the 
strength of that sweet quiet face, and that undying 
liglit of faith. See her as she wanders through 
the very scum and offal of mankind, and behold her 
as she brings forth all the best of human feelings 
where common charity could only find the worst, 
and then observe her as the children cling 
about her, and will not let her go — and you will 
know why sister Jane is so contented and so happy. 
But more than this the mystery will be made clear, 
by hearing sister Jane, as kneeling by the bedside 



132 BETIVEEN TIMES. 

when the day is over, she thanks God for all His 
many mercies, and murmurs softly : " One day 
nearer ! Oh, I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that 
the days are growing less and less that keep me 
from Thee, that keep me from my loved ones ; that 
surely, surely, I am nearing heaven. Oh, Father — 
dear, kind Father — make me strong to bear the joy 
of meeting Thee, give me strength that I may see 
the glory of my Saviour, and not die ; and, oh, up- 
hold me, that I faint not when I clasp my loved 
ones in my arms once more. For I praise Thy 
holy name, my Father ; my heart is bound to Thee." 
And just before the lamp-light is extinguished, 
a wavering, trembling, yet withal a pleasant voice 
may be heard singing, — 

" One sweetly solemn thought comes to me o'er and o'er. 
I'm nearer my home to-day than ever I've been before ; 
I'm nearer my home, nearer my home, nearer my home 

to-day, 
Yes, nearer my home in heaven to-day than ever I've 
been before." 



LITTLE TODDLER. 



m 



XVIII. 
LITTLE TODDLER. 




ITTLE TODDLER is a gentleman in 
petticoats. 
They who are supposed to know these 
secret matters aver that age is creeping fast on 
Little Toddler, and that if he keeps on so bravely 
he will soon discard the youthful petticoats and don 
the manly pants ; and there are even rumors of a plot 
between that angel of mysterious things, namely : 
Little Toddler's mamma and the genius of the shears, 
viz ; Miss Snipps, the dressmaker, to the effect that 
the forthcoming pants shall be of rich dark blue, 
and that the buttons shall be of the brightest brass 
the market can afford. Moreover it is certain, 
documentary proof being compressed between the 
pages of the family Bible, that Little Toddler is just 
a month and two days more than three years old. 

It is then not strange that, in the dignity of his 
advancing years. Little Toddler should be rather 
enterprising in his disposition, and of an inquiring 
mind, and that in the pursuit of his investigations, 
instituted through these traits of character, he 
should frequently press forward into danger. 



134 BETWEEN TIMES. 



Not only does Little Toddler press forward into 
danger, but he is often found to plunge into it in 
the most abrupt and unexpected manner. And, in 
so doing, he brings trepidation and alarm amongst 
the angels. 

These angels, hovering about the path of Little 
Toddler, faithfully protect him in his daily life. 
Indeed, if it were not for these angels, Little Tod- 
dler might himself have been a little angel long ago. 

First and foremost of these angels, ranking 
number one, stands Little Toddler's mamma. 

Surely in the list of Heaven's angels there are 
none more sweet or true. Surely this dear angel 
is a godsend in the life of Little Toddler. Surely, 
surely, there is beauty everywhere when she is 
near. What angel is so vigilant in watching Little 
Toddler, lest in venturing too near that dangerous 
precipice, the staircase, he tumble down the steps .'' 
Who rescues him from drowning in a tub, and 
catches him in time as he is rashly plunging 
through the window } Who hides the concentrated 
lye lest Little Toddler find it, and saves him from 
his enemy, the cat ? And in whose arms, so dear 
and soft, is there such perfect rest .-' Who calls him 
" mamma's little pet," and smothers him with kisses ; 
and who sings to him that potent lullaby, " Rock- 
a-by, baby, in the tree-top," until Little Toddler 



LITTLE TODDLER: 1 35 

gets quite drowsy, and, at peace with all the world, 
falls dreamily asleep ? Ah, darling angel ! sweet, 
dear mamma ! God ordains that when the other 
angels have been all forgotten, this dear one shall 
yet be bright in Little Toddler's memory. 

And then there is the angel papa. A great tall, 
sturdy angel, who thinks a deal of Little Toddler, 
and rides 'him on his knee — who calls him "little 
man," and laughs aloud when Little Toddler tries 
to speak. An angel with a covering of hair upon 
his face which sticks and tickles Little Toddler 
when the angel tries to kiss him. An angel with a 
mystery, in that he goes each morning out into that 
vague and boundless world beyond the garden gate, 
which Little Toddler has an intense desire to ex- 
plore. Yet a grand, good angel, in that he re- 
appears at evening with a mine of treasures, 
consisting of sweetmeats, dogs, cats, mimic soldiers, 
jumping-jacks, Chinese puzzles, and the like, in his 
unfathomable pocket. 

Then there is angel brother John, who holds 
Little Toddler on old Rover's back, and rides him 
up and down the yard. And angel Margaret, the 
housemaid, who plays with Little Toddler while 
she makes the beds. And angel Bridget in the 
kitchen, who is on especial duty to prevent the red- 
hot stove from scorching him, and many other 



136 BETWEEN TIMES. 

angels, all of whom have watch and ward o'er Little 
Toddler. 

And so it is that Little Toddler, although ven- 
turesome and bold, is guarded and protected, and 
has so far escaped the dangers which have threat- 
ened him. 

Whether there is ever any speculation in the 
mind of Little Toddler as to how the aitgels who 
protect him are themselves protected, cannot at 
present be determined, as Little Toddler has not 
yet learnt his mother tongue. Yet, he is very wise 
and learning fast, and we shall know quite soon 
what Little Toddler thinks about it. 

Pending which it may be well to ask ourselves 
this question : Are there any angels guarding us 
as there are angels guarding Little Toddler ? Are 
the dangers that so often threaten us made power- 
less by unseen power greater than our own .'* 

It must be so. For we are naught but grown-up 
Little Toddlers, after all — blindly rushing into 
danger that we cannot see — craving for the things 
that cannot help but do us harm, and daily being 
rescued by the unseen angels. Therefore let us 
have, like Little Toddler, an unfaltering faith in our 
good Father in the unseen world beyond our narrow 
little sphere. And may He find us, Little Toddlers, 
glad and ready to receive Him when He comes. 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1 39 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 



THE VILLAGE. 




]MONG the villages which share 
New England's ever watchful care, 
Where taste and pardonable pride 
Her cottages have beautified, 
In clusters fair, adorning still 
The level land, or vale or hill ; 
Where the home-love, which freely all 
Surrenders at its country's call, 
Here in its beauty is displayed 
In gardens trim and walks well laid, 
In orchards full and roadways wide, 
And happy homes on every side ; 
While, set against the deep blue sky, 
The slender church-spire greets the eye, - 
None could more fair or pleasant be 
Than one which looked upon the sea. 



I40 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Oft when the night had gathered dark 
About their tempest-driven bark, 
Imperilled mariners had seen, 
With joy, the village lights serene, 
And, guided by these beacons pure. 
In peaceful haven rode secure. 
The traveller, too, w^hose spirit yearned, 
As from his wanderings he returned. 
Rejoiced those well-known sounds to near, 
Which he had often longed to hear, 
As, pressing hard his tired feet, 
He sped his early friends to meet. 
Sure, though the world remembered not. 
That here he had not been forgot. 
Here rose the sound of church-bells clear, 
By distance mellowed to the ear. 
Sweet-toned and dying soft away. 
Far landward — farther o'er the bay ; 
Here rose the smith's melodious song, 
The farm-boy's echo — full and long, - 
The country wagon's creaking noise. 
The shouts of village girls and boys, 
The cattle lowing from the pool. 
The drowsy murmur of the school ; — 
All, as the wanderer nearer drew, 
A conscious spell around him threw ; 



THE PRIDE OF GUV ALLEN. 



Or, when the Sabbath brought its peace, 
And caused the sounds of toil to cease — 
When the low chant ox» sacred psalm 
Broke the sweet Sabbath's holy calm ; 
And once again, with earnest face, 
The pastor preached the word of grace ; 
How happy he, who from the scene, 
By sea and land had parted been, 
Once more the modest church to view, 
The square, high-backed, old-fashioned pev/ 
To see, albeit older grown. 
Some of the faces he had known. 
And, grateful for the dangers past. 
Thank God that he was home at last. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 

Some stranger, whose observant eye 
Each noted landmark sought to spy, 
Might in this peaceful village find 
Much to enrich his curious mind ; 
But most of all his glance would stray 
Where, back from the accustomed way, 
Midst humbler cottages of wood, 
A more pretentious mansion stood. 
'Twas built of stone of wide-spread fame. 



142 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Bore on the door its owner's name ; 
Bright windows, many-paned and wide, 
Let in the light on every side ; 
Square walls, all covered o'er with vine, 
Broad porches, decked with roses fine, 
A green lane, through a stately grove 
Of elm trees, interlaced above ; 
To right and left, fair beds of flowers ; 
In sheltered places, rustic bowers. 
And a wide lawn, whose velvet green 
Might rouse the envy of a queen. 
All these, with fields of waving grain, 
That filled the wide and fruitful plain, 
Combined, in beauties rich and rare, 
To make a homestead passing fair. 
Here lived Guy Allen ; well could he 
The village Croesus claim to be. 



GUY ALLEN. 

Guy Allen was proud, for he could trace 
Through centuries his ancestral race : 
On vast estate and castle stone, 
The light of generations shone ; 
And though to these, or titled name, 
New England born, he ne'er laid claim, 



THE PRIDE OE CUV ALLEN. 1 43 

He felt that through his pulses flowed 

The crimson tide of noble blood. 

This gave his brow its haughty curve ; 

This tinged his mien with cold reserve ; 

Gave to his feet their haughty tread, 

Its stately bearing to his head ; 

And though he would have scorned to own 

Allegiance to an earthly throne, 

And though, were danger to assail 

His native land, he would not fail 

To faithfully defend its laws, 

Or shed his blood in freedom's cause, 

Guy Allen could not quite forget 

His family name and coronet. 

Of many sons he had been one, 

But, as the years their course had run, 

The brothers whom he dearly loved, 

By death, all certain, were removed : 

In slow consumption's sure decay 

His wife had early passed away ; 

And now, an only daughter dear 

Remained his growing age to cheer. 



144 BETWEEN TIMES. 

MAY ALLEN. 

May Allen was fair as fair could be, 

The pride of village maids was she, 

Beauty, and youth, and health, gave grace 

To every feature of her face. 

With just enough of native pride 

To mark the sterner parent's side — 

While even this would melt before 

The touching stories of the poor — 

Her gentler nature still was shown 

In modest mien and gentle tone: 

And if at times her youth found vent 

In pure and harmless merriment. 

The while her happy speech was full 

Of humor irrepressible, 

She guarded well her flashing wit 

Lest it some tender heart might hit, 

Which, sorely grieved, might from her turn 

And with resentment hotly burn ; 

With glances bright, and sunny smiles 

She spoke, while these unconscious wiles 

Into her fast increasing train 

Drew many a love-lorn village swain. 

Guy Allen loved his daughter well, 
More than that stern man chose to tell. 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1 45 

He heard with fond paternal pride 
Her praises echoed far and wide, 
And though his love was not displayed ■ 
By any outward sign he made, 
His feeling grew the more intense 
Because devoid of warm pretence. 
Yet the great love that held her dear 
Was not without its constant fear : 
For, as he marked her growing charms,- 
Ofttimes distrust and vague alarms 
His mind disturbed, and sent a dart 
Of apprehension to his heart, 
Lest, tempted by her gentle worth, 
Some daring lad of humble birth, 
Whose only fortune at command 
Was in his brain and in his hand. 
With thoughtless and audacious fire 
Might to her heart and hand aspire. 
Wherefore Guy Allen was imbued 
At times with deep solicitude. 
And watched with keen suspicious eye 
Each visitor who ventured nigh. 
For he was proud — and he had said : 
" If e'er my daughter dares to wed 
With one beneath her station born 
She shall be heiress of my scorn ; 



146 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Henceforth and ever unto me 
An utter stranger she shall be ; 
I will not know her though she pleads 
For pardon on her bended knees ; 
Nor shall she pass my threshold o'er 
Although in rags she seeks my door." 
And thus to her : " Remember, girl, 
You are descended from an earl ; 
The names of our illustrious line 
Undimmed through generations shine. 
Do not forget your birth and place, 
You are the last of all your race, 
And when you wed, as wed you will, 
Your father's counsel follow still." 

Then clinging to her father's side 
May Allen laughingly replied : 
" But, father dear, where shall I find 
A lover worthy to your mind .-' 
For where is he who dares to boast. 
In all New England's dented coast, 
A title, or demand the rights 
That Europe gives to lords and knights } 
'Twere but a foolish thought to aim 
In this free land at pride of name." 

Then on his daughter looking down, 
With half a smile, and half a frown, 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1 47 

Guy Allen said : "The land is free, 
And knows no pomp of heraldry 
(And I am glad, for courts and kings 
Are oftentimes but hollow things) ; 
But I will have no village boor 
Or penniless lad your love allure — 
Nor would I have you sell your love ; 
Choose wisely — all your feelings prove — 
Turn from the man who does not clasp 
Your very soul within his grasp — 
But one of low degree in vain 
May hope my favor to obtain ; 
And if against my will you wed 
My love to hate shall turn instead, 
And from that day of fell disgrace 
You ne'er shall see your father's face." 

But who can say when love begins, 
When first the inner soul it wins, 
What mortal check its fond desire. 
Or quench at will its holy fire ? 
And who can mark the fateful hour 
When first it slowly gathers power ? 
Not the quick passion which upstarts 
A feverish flame in fickle hearts, 
But the stroncj fire, long burning low 
Until, above its hot red glow. 



148 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Subduing all, it bursts at length 

From heart to heart with heavenly strength, 

And, heeding naught that stands before, 

Burns stronger, brigliter, evermore ; 

Until, for them to whom 'tis given, 

It gilds the very gates of heaven. 

Full many an unseen subtle thread 

Of circumstance has slowly led 

The heart blindfolded to its mate, 

Predestined by unerring fate. 

For love its course will still pursue 

Despite what mortal power may do, 

And in its golden fetters bind 

Hearts which for union were designed. 



RICHARD LEIGH. 

Now in the village there was one 
Who had his life-work just begun ; . 
A youth he was of comely face, 
Of supple limb and manly grace, 
And for his sterling parts held dear 
Throughout the country, far and near: 
But he was poor and could not claim 
Kinship to noble lord or dame ; 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 149 

He lacked the wealth which might disguise 
The lack of " blood " in Allen's eyes. 
Wherefore Guy Allen would not bend 
To greet him by the name of friend, 
And scarcely deigned to show that he 
Knew the young doctor, Richard Leigh ; 
Who, from all envious thoughts exempt, 
Unmoved by Allen's cold contempt, 
Labored in his appointed way 
In faithful toil from day to day. 



THE RESCUE. 

But chance will oft at length decide 
In spite of human will and pride. 
And shall we call it simply chance ? 
May it not well be Providence 
Which from the tangled thread of life, 
With knots and imperfections rife, 
Draws forth the perfect strands, to be 
Woven in beauteous harmony .'* 
And so, upon a wintry day, 
While trudging o'er the snow-decked way, 
Richard suddenly heard a shout, 
And, turning instantly about. 



ISO BETWEEN TIMES. 

Beheld a frightened, frantic steed 
Dashing along with headlong speed, 
Furious before the frail, light sleigh 
In which, alone, sat gentle May, 
Holding the reins with fingers numb, 
In speechless terror pale and dumb. 
But little time was there to think, 
For they were close upon the brink 
Of a rude chasm, deep and wide, 
From which — abruptly turned aside — 
The road a new direction took. 
Following, with many a curve and crook, 
The precipice for half a mile. 
Where danger threatened all the while. 
Were the mad steed with his light load 
To dash into this dangerous road 
The dullest mind could well foresee 
How sad the awful end might be ; 
For swerving from that winding path 
Meant sure and instantaneous death. 

He saw the danger where he stood ; 

It shocked his heart and chilled his blood. 

One moment in suspense supreme 

He waited — then as from a dream 

Of horrid import just awaked, 

He forward sprang with limbs that quaked 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 15 I 

But firm of will and clear of eye, 
And with a sharp, commanding cry, 
Caught with one hand the horse's mane, 
And with the other grasped the rein, 
And thus, in almost fatal wise. 
Was dragged before May Allen's eyes. 
But the mad steed this added strain 
Not many moments could maintain. 
And soon he faltered in his race. 
Slackened his fierce, impetuous pace. 
Until, subdued by voice and strength. 
Trembling and spent, he stopped at length. 

A sturdy farmer and his son, 

Who witnessed how the deed was done, 

Hastened their kindly aid to lend 

To him who oft had been their friend ; 

And when they quickly reached her side 

Who thus had ta'en this fearful ride. 

They saw a pale, unconscious face 

Whereon great fear had left its trace. 

While still the slender hands tight clasped 

The reins, with all their might held fast. 



152 BETWEEN TIMES. 



THE REWARD. 

With gentle haste and tender care, 

Wrapped in warm furs, they carried her 

Back to her father's home, where soon 

She wakened from her deathlike swoon. 

Then to depart was Richard fain. 

But May compelled him to remain, 

While her great gratitude found vent 

In tears and glances eloquent. 

And when to Allen it was told, 

With strange emotions manifold 

He thanked the youth who thus could brave 

Danger and death a life to save. 

And though the old, inherent pride 

Was far from being satisfied, 

Still one who had so well preserved 

His daughter's life in truth deserved 

Some recognition more than he 

Had yet vouchsafed to Richard Leigh. 

For, though proud-hearted, he was just; 

And, breaking through the haughty crust 

Of self-reserve and cold command, 

He grasped the young physician's hand, 



THE PRIDE OE GUY ALLEN. 153 

And thanked him — urged him to remain — 
And begged him oft to come again, 
And pledged himself in every way 
His debt of service to repay. 



LOVE'S BEGINNING. 

Then Richard went away well pleased, 
With a light step and a heart eased 
Of a great burden which had pressed 
Like a huge stone upon his breast. 
For he had worshipped from afar 
With secret love the village star ; 
A love deep hid within bis heart 
While they by pride were kept apart. 
Sweet were his dreams that winter night, 
And beautiful the hope whose light, 
Erstwhile but dimly shining, now 
Set its bright seal upon his brow ; 
While from that day, with joy renewed, 
He labored on in happier mood. 
And oft turned, when his tasks were o'er. 
His willing feet towards Allen's door. 
Where, of all hearts, at least beat one 
With his in gentle unison. 



154 BETWEEN TIMES. 

For men will seek and men will find 

The tender love of womankind, 

Which still o'er all the world holds sway 

In the same dear resistless way, 

Which has controlled, since earth began, 

The hopes and destinies of man. 

Guy Allen was not quite content. 

He felt that some impediment 

Should in the young man's path be thrown. 

But recognition had been shown 

To him in public word and act, 

And 'twere unmanly to retract 

His favor for the slender cause, 

Which bare suspicion dimly draws. 

But, when alone with May, his fear 

Broke forth in caution sharp and clear. 

Little indeed Guy Allen knew 

When first that fluttering feeling grew 

Which soon, transcending every thought, 

Its power in May's sweet spirit wrought. 

And when, at last, before his eyes, 

His fears he came to realize, 

He felt, with blind and bitter pain, 

That all his caution had been vain. 



THE PRIDE OE GUY ALLEN. 155 



ALLEN'S ANGER. 

But now at length the time had come 

When the desire, which had been dumb 

So long, could not itself contain, 

Nor longer voiceless still remain. 

And so, upon his love intent, 

Manly and nobly Richard went. 

And to the haughty sire confessed 

The hopes and fears which filled his breast. 

Stern was Guy Allen's face, and bright 

His dark eye shone with angry light ; 

And swiftly rising from his seat 

He forward strode with rapid feet ; 

Then back again, as if inclined 

With motion swift to ease his mind. 

Thus back and forth his room he paced 

Until he thrice its length had traced ; 

Till the composure, hard and cold, 

Disturbed at first, returned three-fold. 

Then in an icy tone he said. 

While he held high his haughty head, 

" I grant the service you have don<? 

Our life-long gratitude has won ; 

And I would willingly repay 

In every fair and worthy way, 



156 BETWEEN TIMES. 

With friendly help, or counsel true, 
This debt so great and justly due. 
Wherefore my words to you are weak ; 
What I would say I dare not speak ; 
And so the answer brief is best 
And silence shall convey the rest, 
Ask what you will of land or gold — 
My daughter's hand I must withhold." 

A pallor spread o'er Richard's face, 
And yet he spoke with inborn grace, 
Albeit with a warmth which proved 
Beyond a doubt how much he loved : 
" I make for service great or small 
To you or yours no claim at all. 
If, in the scope of God's design, 
Some deed of duty has been mine, 
I will not be so foolish, vain, 
For this material aid to gain. 
But, oh ! forgive me if I dare 
Once more my heart's love to declare — 
" It is enough," Guy Allen said. 
And darkly frowning, shook his head ; 
" 'Tis true you have preserved her life, 
But still she cannot be your wife." 

*' And why," the young man hotly cried, 
*' Is then to me this boon denied ? 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 157 

Why must my hopes, so long deferred, 
Again be in my heart interred. 
Till, day by day and year by year, 
Bereft of what I hold most dear, 
Crowned with no joy, but filled with care, 
My heart sinks into dull despair ? 
And is there nothing I can do 
To prove how well I love, how true ? 
Oh, bid me strive, as Jacob strove, 
Through the long years to gain his love, 
And I will suffer and be strong 
Through patient labor, dumb and long. 
We are content with any lot 
But that of parting — part us not ; 
For her true love goes out, dear sir, 
To me, as mine goes out to her." 

Now burned Guy Allen's anger more 
Than it had ever flamed before, 
No more discreet, but loud and wild. 
His words burst forth : — 

" Ungrateful child ! 
And has she dared my will to thwart — 
To harbor treason in her heart ? 
And has she sent her willing slave 
Her father's righteous ire to brave .-* 



158 BETWEEN TIMES. 



Know, then, bold youth, that if the day 
Should come when you are wed with May, 
Forever from this house she goes 
And leaves me bitterest of her foes ; 
My hatred shall her dowry be. 
And I will curse the name of Leigh. 
For I have sworn that if her line 
Is tinged with baser blood than mine, 
Henceforth to me she is no more 
Than the vile beggar at my door." 
With a red flush which proved how keen 
This passionate, bitter thrust had been, 
Richard arose and stood erect 
In the full power of self-respect. 
Manly he looked, and fair to see, 
Clothed in unconscious dignity. 
While his whole manner shadowed forth 
His innate sense of noble worth. 

*' If you had held, proud sir, her charms 

Too dear, too precious for my arms, 

For any other cause, at will. 

Than this, I would respect you still. 

And though it left to others free 

The precious love denied to me, 

Out of that door, heart-filled with pain, 

But silent, I had turned again. 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 159 

But to declare your daughter's hand 
Must better blood than mine command, 
I sa}', New England's cities hold 
In each true heart within their fold 
A stream of life as pure, as fine, 
As ever coursed through Allen's line ; 
And every soul that loves the right 
Is just as good, in Heaven's sight. 
Despite of birth, or name, or place, 
As any son of Allen's race." 

With anger Allen turned about. 

"Nay," said Leigh, calmly, " hear me out. 

Spare idle threats — for these I care 

No more than for a breath of air. 

And had I loved your daughter less. 

And wished with her my suit to press, 

Out of your house I would have borne 

My love in spite of all your scorn. 

But I would spare her future pain 

At any cost of selfish gain. 

I will not tempt her filial truth, 

Old age shall not reproach her youth ; 

As she has been she still must be — 

Her father's child — though loving me. 

Forgive me, sir, if I have been 

In word or temper far too keen ; 



l6o BETWEEN TIMES. 

For if you knew how sharp the smart 
Which rankles deeply in my heart, 
You would forgive, though every word 
Had touched you like a two-edged sword. 
Farewell ! " and turning he was gone, 
And the proud father stood alone. 



RICHARD'S DEPARTURE. 

What passed that day between the two 
The curious gossips never knew. 
But wide the village oped its eyes, 
Lost in conjecture and surprise, 
And much it gaped and hard it gazed, 
And oft its hands in ^wonder raised. 
When busy tongues the rumor bore 
That Leigh would practise there no more. 
Vain were their questions, warm and kind, 
To learn the secret of his mind ; 
Though ever courteous, kind and fair. 
He would with none his secret share. 
Except that in his darkened eye, 
A settled sorrow seemed to lie, 
Except that on his face the shade 
Of sorrowing thought its impress laid, 



THE FRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. l6i 

And that his mien was strangely grave, 
No other certain sign he gave. 
And soon they heard him say " Farewell ! " 
But whither he went no man could tell. 



MAY'S DECLINE. 

May heard the news and from that hour. 
She drooped as droops a fading flower ; 
Distress was written on her brow ; 
Her merry laugh had vanished now. 
And thus the last of Allen's line 
Sank into swift and sure decline. 

Guy Allen, filled with pain and fear, 
Seeing the shadow drawing near, 
Of the dark angel, whose return 
He sadly dreaded to discern, 
Sought to discover if he might, 
Some potent plan by which the light 
Of joy and pleasure might retrace 
Their happy smiles in May's dear face ; 
And with a desperate feeling sought 
To rouse her from her gloomy thought. 
But all his labor was in vain : 
May would not — could not smile' again. 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



At length in hope that other sights, 
Strange scenes, new beauties, fresh delights, 
Might from his daughter's heart remove 
The cancer of her hopeless love, 
Allen determined they should go 
On journeys various to and fro, 
Where balmy air and summer skies 
Delight the sense and please the eyes ; 
Till interest new and time should cure 
The wound her heart could not endure. 



SLEEP, MEMPHIS: 

Where the broad river onward flows, 
The southern twilight darker grows, 
And, resting now on Memphis' breast, 
Lulls her to sweet repose and rest. 
A thousand lights yet brightly gleam, 
Reflected in the placid stream. 
While borne upon its spacious tide, 
Colossal steamers onward glide. 
Huge shadows on the river's breast 
Like clouds that on the earth do rest, 
Dark all, except that glowing line 
Where lights through cabin windows shine. 



THE PRIDE OF "GUY ALLEN. 1 63 

And at the smoke-stack's towering heights 

Are seen the colored signal lights. 

In street and alley and green lane. 

The evening bells are heard again, 

While gently stealing on their way, 

The evening breezes softly sway. 

Go back ! go back ! oh, evening breeze ! 

The poison of a thousand trees, 

Whose leaves are death, is in your touch, 

And deadlier than a serpent's clutch. 

And fiercer than a serpent's hiss 

Is your caressing hold and kiss. 

Sleep, Memphis, in your slumber deep ; 

For this shall be your last sweet sleep 

Ere toil and terror and distress 

Drive out your peace and happiness. 

Peace to the house where strangers dwell, 

Silence and rest while all is well ; 

Quiet oblivion watch her door 

Who sleeps while yet her heart is sore ; 

Who tosses on her pillow soft, 

Lost in sad dreams and moaning oft, 

Too weak her waking watch to keep, 

Too sad to find refreshing sleep. 

And peace to him whose light still burns 

As fitfully he walks and turns 



1 64 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Within his room, or anxious marks, 
As by his door, ajar, he harks, 
Across the intervening hall. 
The sad unconscious moans, which fall 
From the pale lips, which once so gay, 
Are fading silently away. 
Sleep, stern old man ! rest gently now 
Ere deeper care-lines mark your brow ; 
Sleep while you may — the time is nigh 
When slumber from your couch shall fly, 
And Allen's pride shall strive in vain 
With anxious fear and burning pain. 



THE HERO OF PEACE. 

The morning came, and with it fled 

The peace of Memphis, for men said, 

With blanched cheeks and quivering mouth, 

" The pest is coming from the south ! " 

Then eyes with tears began to fill. 

And pallid cheeks grew paler still, 

And turning to the safer north, 

All who could journey issued forth. 

The doctor stood within his door, 

Where pleading friends were grouped before, 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1 65 

"The yellow curse no man can stay ; 
Away from this valley of death, away ! " 
But the doctor sturdily shook his head, 
And, gently answering, thus he said : 
" Farewell, farewell to all my friends ; 
But here my duty is — and ends, 
If God so wills. I cannot shirk 
This plainly necessary work. 
Little enough of help will be, 
When few remain and many flee." 
" But if you die ! " his comrades cried, 
" The Lord knows best ; let Him decide." 

They left him as a man self-doomed, 

But in their hearts, for his sake, bloomed 

Flowers of love, whose fragrance rare, 

'Twere highest earthly bliss to share. 

For he who meets a human foe. 

With force contending, blow for blow, 

And on the field of battle falls, 

Where patriotic duty calls, 

Is less deserving of our praise 

Than he who, in more quiet ways, 

But in a pestilential breath 

Which is the very air of death, 

Goes forth to combat or endure 

A foe more keen, a death more sure. 



1 66 BETWEEN IIMES. 



FACE TO FACE. 

The scourge came quickly to its prey : 
Over the strong it held its sway ; 
It scattered the young, gathered the old, 
And held high carnival with the bold. 
With deed of comfort, word of cheer, 
Summons answering, far and near. 
The doctor went his daily round ; 
Where need was greatest he was found. 
His smiling face, and cheery voice. 
And wondrous skill, made men rejoice ; 
And oft rekindled Hope's bright fire, 
Which had just threatened to expire. 
Once, as at evening's darkling close, 
He sought a moment's sweet repose. 
That on the morn he might repair 
Into the fever-haunted air 
With strength renewed, in haste there came 
A messenger, who named a name 
Whereat his very marrow thrilled 
As if by sudden frost 'twere chilled ; 
And up he sprang, and forth he went, 
As one on earnest purpose bent. 
Knowing that life depends, indeed, 
Upon each moment's utmost speed. 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1 6/ 

Hot, parched, delirious, fever-sore, 

Far from his dear New England shore, 

Guy Allen tossing lay, with none 

To comfort or attend, save one, — 

His daughter May, whose pallid brow 

Rivalled the valley lilies now ; 

And who, in agony intense. 

Born of her terrible suspense, 

Silently wept, and watched, and prayed 

That the Destroyer might be stayed. 

At last, when hope was almost dead, 

May Allen heard a hasty tread. 

Which, drawing nearer, stopped before 

The sick-room's partly-open door. 

The doctor knocked. " Come in," she cried : 

And then the door was opened wide. 

And in that unexpected place, 

Richard and May stood face to face. 

A silent pressure of the hand, 

A look which both could understand, 

A few low words, which each let fall 

In earnest greeting — this was all ; 

Then, as by sudden impulse stirred, 

They turned, without another word, 

And to his need, who had suppressed 

Their early hopes, their thought addressed. 



1 68 BETWEEN TIMES. 



THE HEART REBUKED. 

'TwAS a hard battle, but at length 

Disease gave way to skill and strength, 

And once more from his bed of pain 

Guy Allen slowly rose again. 

Arose to see death's shadow fall 

On simple home and mansion hall ; 

Even as when Egypt's fatal morn 

Disclosed the doomed and slain first-born. 

Or Rachel, o'er her lovely dead, 

Refusing to be comforted. 

To see distinction all give way 

Before the danger of the day. 

To see, where sickness and distress 

Evoke that wondrous tenderness 

Of human sympathy, all pride 

Of every nature swept aside ; 

To see, on every hand, how free 

And universal love can be ; 

To see the whole broad land outpour 

Its generous aid at Memphis' door : 

Arose to learn, with secret shame, 

How empty is a noble name, 

When all the callous heart has been 

So wrapped its cloak of pride within ; 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1 69 

To feel the stern rebuke that worth 

Ranks wealth, ranks pride, ranks noble birth. 

And love is still, in every heart, 

Above all else, its better part. 

And now, as Allen stronger grew, 

And in his eye the light anew 

Witnessed to health's returning sway, 

And ere they could his care repay 

Or e'en had thanked him as they might, 

The doctor vanished from their sight. 

Then Allen, all subdued and changed, 

Resolved they should not be estranged, 

But, Richard found, he would recall 

The angry words he had let fall. 

He sought him then with intent kind, 

But Leigh at home he could not find, 

And, fearing to remain too long. 

For May was neither well nor strong. 

The travellers now their steps retraced, 

And homeward sped, with prudent haste. 



THE LAST VICTIM. 

The end for which the nation prayed 
Had come ; the pestilence was stayed. 
And hope revived, and commerce made 
The streets resound with noise of trade ; 



I/O BETWEEN TIMES. 

And daily fewer died — till none 
Remained in danger more, save one. 
That one, who had all danger dared, 
And every toil and hardship shared ; 
Who had remained v/hen others fled 
To help the sick and clothe the dead, 
Now helpless lay, while in his frame 
Burned the consuming fever's flame. 
Men prayed, and gentle women wept, 
As through the land the sad news swept, 
And as it sped upon its way 
It came to Allen and to May. 

Then May's heart yearned for Richard Leigh, 

And she cried out in agony ; 

And her white arms were upward tossed ; 

Yet, ere the cry its echo lost. 

Even in the passing of the thought. 

Her mind with brave resolve was fraught 

Then she sought Allen quickly, cried 

Aloud she would not be denied. 

"I cannot, will not, let him die 

Alone — without a loved one nigh — 

And he shall know my heart can hold 

A love that never can grow cold. 

Father, forbear the angry frown ; 

Look on your child in pity down. 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEN. IJ . 

Oh ! censure not ; your stern behest 
I hitherto have not transgressed ; 
But now my heart will surely break 
If I my dying love forsake." 

Then Allen took her hand, and said, 

While a strange smile his face o'erspread, 

" For his good deeds I would in truth 

Some favor show this comely youth ; 

Wherefore, once more toward Memphis borne 

I will go forth to-morrow morn ; 

But you, my daughter, must remain 

And tarry till I come again. 

Yet rest content. I promise you 

What man can do, that I will do." 

With a fair face so cheerily, 

But, oh ! at heart so wearily. 

Sadder, indeed, than tongue can tell, 

She kissed and bade her sire farewell. 



THE JOYFUL RETURN. 

May Allen by the window stood, 
And looked abroad in pensive mood. 
Broad and fair the acres lay 
But she observed them not that day. 



1/2 BETWEEN TIMES. 



The sky was clear : but, deep in thought 
May Allen saw, and marked it not. 
The nimble rabbit through the wood 
Darted in eager search of food ; 
On trees and field May might have seen 
Full twenty shades of brown and green ; 
Far off a mountain-top lay bare 
Environed by its icy air ; 
Before, the unimpeded light 
On distant village walls flashed bright ; 
And just beyond, the broad blue sea. 
Calm in its peaceful dignity. 
As if upon its heaving breast 
Ne'er rose the waters' foam-topped crest, 
Lay still beneath the autumn sun. 
While on the horizon, one by one, 
The masts dipped down and out of sight, 
Or slowly rose into the light. 
But to this landscape beautiful 
May Allen's eyes and sense were dull. 
A letter on the window-sill 
Lay open, read the lines who will. 
" Richard is well again ; at length 
He has regained his health and strength. 
There is no more for me to do. 
And I will now return to you." 



THE PRIDE OF GUY ALLEX 



No word from Richard, not the least 
On which her longing eye might feast. 
And so her fingers on the pane 
Tapped to her heart's unsung refrain, 
He comes no more — he loves me not — 
I am forgot — I am forgot." 

Wrapped in these thoughts she does not see 

A coach approaching speedily ; 

In sad abstraction, never hears 

The joyful sound of village cheers ; 

Nor marks, as moodily she stands, 

The signal of uplifted hands. 

The servants hasten to and fro, 

And wide the hall-door open throw ; 

The dogs, in unrestrained glee. 

Run wild and bark uproariously. 

Full well they know, with instinct keen, 

What these unusual sounds may mean, 

And bay with all their might and main 

To welcome Allen home again. 

Still May before the window stood 
Looking abroad in pensive mood, 
When, suddenly, her name she heard, 
Spoken with an endearing word. 



74 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Quick beat her heart — hot flamed her cheek 
She started — turned — essayed to speak — 
" Oh, Richard ! " " Darling May," and then 
The parted hands were joined again ; 
And their eyes' lovelight told how much 
Each heart thrilled at this happy touch. 



CLOSING WORDS. 

But little more have I to tell 
Except to say that " all is well ! " 
Even as the watch of old went by 
And voiced his reassuring cry. 
For, two months from that happy time, 
The village bells began to chime ; 
And ere the sun's declining ray 
Had marked the closing hour of day, 
Out of the dear old church at last, 
Richard and May together passed 
As man and wife, amid the cheers 
Of the warm-hearted villagers. 
And such a feast as then was spread 
In Allen's mansion — so 'tis said — 
Before or since has never been 
Within that peaceful village seen. 



THE PRTDE OF GUY ALLEN. 1/5 

And never from those joyous days 
Was Allen proudly heard to praise 
His name, or hold its claims above 
The claims of honest worth and love ; 
And much I fear that he may yet 
Forget that old earl's coronet. 



BETWEEN TIMES, 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 




JAMES A. GARFIELD. 

September 19, 1881. 

LAS ! the bitter day is here, 
The saddest day of all the year. 

A great man has been stricken down, 
A strong man has been overthrown, 
My chief, my president, my own, 
Lies dead upon his bier. 

We hear the solemn church-bells toll, 
We hear the boom of cannon roll ; 
Our eyes are dimmed, we cannot rest, 
There is a burden on the breast. 
The world is weeping for its best, 
Its most heroic soul. 

It is a sadness all too deep 

For words ; we can but weep and weep, 
And, weeping, deck the mournful land 
With sombre wreath and dark-hued band, 
Let every flag at half-mast hang, 

And sorrowing vigils keep. 

179 



l80 BETWEEN TIMES. 

He was so noble and so good ; 

Upright before the world he stood, 
His life an open book, where light 
On every page shone clear and white, 
And every word was pure and bright, 

Through varying time and moodo 

The struggles of his youthful life, 
His patience in that early strife. 
His constant purpose, well and true 
The right to teach, the right to do, 
Into a sterling manhood grew, 

A power with lessons rife. " 

Through all the change of place and power, 
Through each temptation of the hour. 

He held his way, nor turned aside 

To fawn, to threaten, or deride ; 

God and his country he allied ; — 
This was his rock and tower. 

Not less his sweet domestic shrine, 

The graces of his modest line, 
Not less his true devotion, shown 
In every look, in every tone. 
For those whose love was his alone 

Shall make his glory shine. 



THE CRY OF THE WHITE SLAVE. l8l 

The planet that at Mentor rose 

Now as a star of glory glows, 
Its lustre marked by every eye ; 
It will not fade, it will not die. 
Lo ! as the years to be go by. 

In beauty still it grows. 

His life is o'er, his work is done ; 

He sleeps, but in his sleep lives on. 
For men can hear, and men can see, 
And this the best, it seems to me, 
Of all that men shall say, will be, 

" He made "his people one." 




THE CRY OF THE WHITE SLAVE. 



S I pondered in the gloom, 
Quiet as the silent tomb. 
In the darkness and the weirdness that was 
gathered in my room. 
Through my nerves there crept a shiver, 

Colder than an icy stream. 
Making all my marrow quiver, 
And the place a horror seem, 



1 82 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Fearfully I bowed my head, 
With a vague and nameless dread, 
Like the signal and forewarning of the coming of 
the dead ; 

While, without, the rain was falling, 

And the thunder grated by, 
When a wraith, a shade appalling, 
Suddenly transfixed my eye. 

Never shall my heart forget 
What that night my room beset, 
What congealed me into silence by a fear remem- 
bered yet. 

And the words, the words of burning, 

That the wraith, in solemn dole 
Uttered, ever are returning, 
They are written on my soul. 

Bent his form, and slow his pace, 
Coarse of feature, low of race, 
While a look of awful sadness rested on his spirit- 
face. 

And I cried, in fear retreating, 

" Who art thou, oh, silent guest } 
Where thy home, and wherefore fleeting 
From the silence of thy rest .'' " 

Suddenly a light then grew 

Round the spectre, strange and new, 



THE CRY OF THE WHITE SLAVE. 1 83 

As if some unearthly lamp its ghostly light upon 
him threw. 

Half in fear and half in pity, 

Then I saw the shade was one 
Of the hundreds in the city 
Of the weary and unknown. 

Dust-begrimed and dirt-defiled, 
Wrinkle over wrinkle piled, 
Wounded, ragged, hopeless, dreary, and by sorrow 
rendered wild, 

Stood the spectre that appalled me, 

And whose words, as weird they ran, 
In their vehemence appalled me, 
While it solemnly began : 

" Oh ! a song for some relief; 
Oh ! a word to soothe our grief ; 
Oh ! an act of simple justice to the lowly from the 
chief. 

From our dangers some protection, 

For our struggles some reward. 
Give, oh, give us some concession, 
For the work is very hard. 

" Often have our graves been made 
With the pickaxe and the spade, 
Toiling where the weak foundation and the crum- 
bling walls are laid. 



1 84 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Oh, the crash, the falHng shower 
Of the heavy wood and stones ! 

Oh, the many wrecks that tower 
Over crushed and broken bones ! 

''Fetch and carry, dig and toil, 
In all weathers, freeze or broil ; 
Oh, the veriest slaves are we of all the slaves above 
the soil. 

Come and breathe the poisonous gases 

Of the sewers where we crawl ; 
In the cellars, damp morasses, 
Come and wonder why we fall. 

" Still the hungry must be fed, 
Still the weary round we tread, 
Though the overtaxing labor brings the weary to 
the dead. 

Still in heated mills we smother, 
Still we walk in crowded ways. 
Jostling one against the other 
In the monotone of days." 

Thus it spoke, and said no more, 
And it vanished from the floor, 
Gliding, fading into darkness through the partly- 
open door. 

But an echo, softly calling, 

All my being strangely thrilled, 



THE CRY OF THE WHITE SLAVE. 185 

And the silence round me falling 
With unspoken speech was filled. 

Up I sprang, and outward sped 
To the darkness, while I said, 
Stretching forth my hands imploring to the spirit 
who had fled, 

" Let me — let me not be taunted 
By the memory of thy gloom ! 
Let me — let me not be haunted 
By thy presence in my room ! " 

And the shade has ne'er returned, 
But the words that I have learned 
Deep within my heart are printed, and into my 
heart are burned. 

And subdued is every pleasure, 

As, long haunted by its lay, 
Still I hear the doleful measure 
Of the voice that seems to say, 

"Oh, for one to right the wrong ! 
Oh, for some one rich and strong, 
Who will set the drift of doing to the current of 
my song ; 

Who will make the burdens lighter. 

That the workers have to bear, 
Who will make the daylight brighter 
To the toilers e\'eryvv^here." 



1 86 BETWEEN TIMES. 




GILBERT RAY. 

HROUGH the burning thirst for gold, 
Sadly to dishonor sold, 
One, exalted in men's eyes. 
Blindly trusted, falls and flies. 

Gilbert Ray has staked and lost, 
Reckless of what it might cost, 
In his keen desire for wealth, 
Funds that were not his, by stealth. 

Day by day, from sin to sin, 
Gilbert Ray went deeper in. 
Till, in one stupendous theft, 
Friend and patron were bereft. 

Nothing sacred in his sight; 
Orphan's fortune, widow's mite, 
Poor man's saving, or the loan 
Made in friendship — ail are gone. 

On a bubble, which has burst, 
He had staked his money first ; 
Then of others, failed, and fled, 
And his fair, fair fame is- dead. 



GILBERT RAY. 1 8/ 



Would I change with Gilbert Ray 
For the wealth of Indies ? Nay ! 
Than this man the meanest poor, 
Be he honest, is worth more. 

Gilbert Ray, the deeds you wrought 
Shall be scorpions to your thought, 
Memory's lash shall never cease 
To disturb your rest and peace. 

Gilbert Ray, your once proud name 
Is to-day a sound of shame. 
Children's children, yet unborn, 
Shall remember you with scorn, 

Spite of long delay of law, 
Spite of legal trick and flaw, 
This your sure reward shall be, 
Punishment and misery. 

Breach of trust ! I do not care 
By what gentle name you bear 
Your rash guilt ; the truth is brief, 
He who steals is but a thief. 

Hush ! I will not have it said 
One who takes a loaf of bread 
Earns, alas ! a harsher name 
Than the roDber, steeped in shame. 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



On my soul the truth is pressed, 
Honest living still is best ; 
Sterling hearts rank fortunes great. 
Character is more than state. 

Gilbert Ray, I bid you pray 
For forgiveness to-day ; 
Humbly now that mercy crave 
Which you need beyond the grave. 

Be not callous, but repent ; 
Prove that you are penitent ; 
As you wronged men, now be true, 
And return to them their due. 




LITTLE BENNIE.— LITTLE MAMIE. 



HALL I tell you of the stream 
Where a little boy once played, 
Where the moon its silver beam 
Touched upon a blue-eyed maid ? 
It is not a tale of wonder, 

Though it happened long ago ? 
It will rend no veil asunder ; 
Shall I tell It } Be it so. 



LITTLE BENNIE. — LITTLE MAMIE. 1 89 

Little Bennie, child of eight, 

Little Mamie, child of three ; 
Happy children, hearts elate 

With their young life's joy and glee. 
Hand in hand, they wander gaily 

Through the meadows, rich and green ; 
Picking flowers, finding daily 

Beauties that they ne'er had seen. 

Little Bennie, child of ten. 

Little Mamie, child of five ; 
Hero small and heroine, 

When in school they bravely strive 
Down to keep that dreadful feeling. 

With the pedagogue in view, 
Which is in their hearts revealing 

Timid fears they never knew. 

Youthful Bennie, boy fifteen. 

Little Mamie, girl of ten ; 
Lurking glances, scarcely seen, 

Painful blushes mounting when 
Schoolboys, hiding by the river, 

See them hand in hand depart, 
Shouting when they see him give her 

• Candy-kiss and sugar-heart. 



190 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Ben, the student, twenty-one, 

Schoolgirl Mamie, sweet sixteen ; 
Strolling where the ripples run, 

In the moonlight's silver sheen ; 
By the olden river, tresses 

Lightly on a shoulder laid ; 
By the dear old river, kisses 

True for lover and for maid. 

Ben, just turning twenty-eight, 

Mamie, flower of twenty-three ; 
Both a trifle proud of late. 

For a boy is on her knee. 
Little hero, boldly crowing. 

Dancing on his mother's arm, 
Little heeding, little knowing 

Of the mother's love so warm. 

Ben, just forty, thoughtful brow, 

Mary, thirty-five, dear wife ; 
Study bringing care-lines now 

With the earnestness of life. 
Steady gait and sober talk, 

Charity more deep, more broad, 
Striving in the path to walk 

That leads upward unto God. 



LITTLE BENNIE. — LITTLE MAMIE. IQI 

Ben, a man of fifty-five, 

Mary, fifty, turning gray ; 
Home, sweet home, a perfect hive — 

Children, taller e'en than they. 
And Love's holy light still shining 

On the hearth of many years, 
Sheds a glory intertwining 

Faith and Hope with joy and tears. 

Ben, gray, bent, and seventy-three, 

Mary, feeble, sixty-eight ; 
Nearing their eternity, 

Trembling form and faltering gait. 
Almost near the shining portal, 

Almost where the waters meet, 
Almost with the waves immortal. 

Washing earth's dust from their feet. 

Ben, a marble shaft stands high, 

With his name and " seventy-four ; " 
Mary, "sixty-nine," hard by, 

Sleeps beside her love of yore. 
By the olden river sleeping ; 

Dear old stream, which ne'er will tell 
All the secrets in its keeping, 

Of the hearts that loved so well. 



192 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



Thus have I, in simple wise, 

Told the simple tale I knew, 
Not in wonder's strange disguise, 

But in story plain and true ; 
And the watchful, -dear old river 

Murmurs softly o'er and o'er, 
" Little Bennie lives forever, 

Little Mamie dies no more." 




THE SLEEP OF THE LITTLE ONES. 

IGHT opens her mantle, 

Her flag is unfurled, 
And darkness comes creeping 

All over the world. 
Now into their cradles, 

Their cribs and their beds, 
The little ones nestle 

Unnumbered wee heads. 
The rose flush of health 

In their round faces shines, 
No heartache to sorrow 

Their slumber confines. 



THE SLEEP OF THE LITTLE ONES. 1 93 

Their prayers have been spoken, 

Each low-uttered word, 
Who doubts that the Father 

Their whisper has heard ? 
Ah yes, for the faith 

That is strong in all prayers 
To move even mountains, 

If need be, is theirs. 
Their trusting prayer ended 

They kiss us " good night ; " 
The eyes gently closing 

Are lost to the light. 
Each round little head, 

On its soft pillow pressed, 
Lies there oblivious, 

Serenely at rest. 
And lo ! in a moment 

Their thoughts fly away, 
To realms of rare beauty 

Where we may not stray. 
Each little mind busy 

With wonders and toys, 
A world of weird happiness, 

Gaily enjoys. 
And so, safely passing 

The dark hours through, 



BETWEEN TIMES. 



They sleep till the morning 

Awakes them anew. 
Oh blessed, thrice blessed, 

The homes where they sleep, 
And long may each circle 

Its little ones keep ; 
For truly the world 

Has no blessing like this — 
A child's faithful love 

And a child's loving kiss. 
Then sleep, gentle darlings, 

While God's mighty arm 
And His holy angels 

Protect you from harm. 



THE DEATH OF FAITHFUL ROVER. 

HE children are dreary and sad to-day. 
And some of them are crying ; 



' Their little long faces are wet with tears, 

For Rover-— Old Rover — is dying. 
They call him pet names and stroke his long hair ; 

They whistle and chirrup together ; 
But the kind old playmate is with them there 

For the last, last time forever. 



THE DEATH OE EATTHEUL ROVER. 1 95 

He opens a moment his wistful eyes ; 

They see it, and call him, " Rover ;" 
A faint, low whine, and he tries to rise, 

And then — poor fellow — it's over. 
And never again through the tangled wood, 

The bees and wild birds chasing. 
Shall the old dog scatter the partridge brood, 

Or bound with the children racing. 

They call him again, again and again, 

They raise his head and shake him ; 
Their little hearts break, but all in vain ; 

They never more shall wake him. 
No more through the copse and the underbrush 

Shall he leap, the hare pursuing ; 
No more will he bark at the tender thrush. 

Or bay when the storm is brewing. 

They will miss the old dog, with his honest face, 

And his tail so briskly wagging. 
And the summer days will have lost their grace, 

And their daily plays go lagging. 
They will miss him, away from the old house-door. 

And the yard will look drear without him ; 
And those merriest days will come no more 

When the children were all about him. 



10 BETWEEN TIMES. 

When, patient and plodding, he bore them all. 

With never a growl of warning ; 
And trod so gently that none might fall, 

And guarded them night and morning ; 
And when the little ones sank to rest, 

Asleep on the grass and clover, 
They nestled their heads on the shaggy breast 

Of faithful, dear old Rover. 

And so the children are dreary and sad, 

And all of them now are crying ; 
Their little long faces are wet with tears 

Where Rover — old Rover — is lying. 
They make him a grave in the hillside fair, 

Where they may forget him never ; 
Then cover him gently and leave him there 

In his peaceful rest forever. 



THE SOUTHERN WIND. 1^7 



THE SOUTHERN WIND. 




HE wind blows east — the wind blows north- 

The wind blows west — I care not ; 
But, oh ! the wind that's from the south 
I love to greet but dare not. 
Fair, fair those southern breezes are, 

Soft are their sweet caresses ; 
Alas ! their music from afar 
My heavy heart distresses. 

Oh, Lilian, thou wert pure and fair, 

Sweet, gentle southern daughter. 
As oft we wandered free from care 

Beside yon rippling water. 
And still that water ripples on 

Beneath the moon's fair splendor ; 
But, Lilian, Lilian, thou art gone — 

Oh, Lilian, true and tender ! 

The cypress marks thy early tomb ; 

Too soon its dark green foliage 
Is mingled with the scented bloom 

Of thy beloved magnolias. 



198 BETWEEN TIMES. 

And flowers grow and flowers fade 
Where thou, fair Lilian, sleepest ; 

But, oh, of all the flowers thus laid. 
Thou wert, dear love, the sweetest. 

Oh, Lilian, Lilian, dark indeed 

The days will be without thee. 
My heart is sad, for memory clings 

In broken love about thee. 
The breeze so soft, thy rosy cheeks 

To darker roses turning. 
Has now a sadder touch, and speaks 

Of unavailing yearning. 

The valley of the river turns 

Unto a beauty olden ; 
The bosom of the river burns 

With splendor rich and golden. 
And slowly through the orange grove, 

With all its sweet delaying, 
The gentle southern breeze, oh, love ! 

Is softly toward me straying. 

The wind blows east — the wind blows north- 
The wind blows west — I care not ; 

But, oh, the wind that's from the south 
I love to street and dare not. 



THE BATTLE OE THE CLOUDS. 1 99 

For flowers grow and flowers fade 
Where thou, lost Lilian, sleepest ; 

But, oh, of all the flowers thus laid. 
Thou wert, dear love, the sweetest. 



THE BATTLE OF THE CLOUDS. 



HE clouds in the air are at battle ; 

The white are marshalled against the black. 
The black are marching against the white ; 
While over them both the sky is blue, 
And under them both my heart is true. 
But whether it be 

That she, to me, 
Is true as my heart, so let it be 

That hope shall strive for the white ; 
Despair for the black shall fight ; 
Now lightning cleav'e and thunder rattle, 
And let the wild wind judge the battle. 

How still the earth is under : 

Eazily shines the evening sun, 

The flowers fall nodding, one by one. 



::oo BETWEEN TIMES. 

The shadows are long of the old oak trees, 
And motionless under the still green leaves, 
For even the breeze 

From under the trees, 
Has gone to the war, and left the bees 
To drowsily hum and sail at ease ; 
But all is changed in frightened wonder, 
Since gleams the lightning, roars the thunder. 

Who of the two shall master ? — 
Gabriel leads in the van of the white, 
Lucifer rides on the brow of the black. 
Lucifer's forces are dark and strong, 
And low in the heavens they roll along ; 
While up in the sky. 

So very high — 
It makes me dizzy to see them fly — 
Gabriel's lifeguard is hurrying by. 

They poise a moment and then they dash; 

There is a gleam and a dismal crash ! 
Faster the north wind sweeps, and faster ! 
The firmament rocks in the dread disaster — 
And fearful and trembling I wait the master. 

Be still, my heart, and faint not ! 
The battle is hot in the vaulted dome ; 
Over the earth does a darkness come. 



THE BATTLE OF THE CLOUDS. 20I 

Now Gabriel's lightning pierces through 
Lucifer's left and shows the blue ; 
While on the right, 

The forces of night 
Thunder against the army of light ; 
And wilder and wilder the wind sweeps down, 
And fiercer' and fiercer the strife goes on, 
And darker and darker the black clouds come. 

Be brave, my soul, and shrink not ! 

Be still, my heart, and faint not ! 

Ah ! struggles my hope in the sunlight ? 
Gleams Gabriel's lightning on Lucifer's brow, 
The thunderbolt falls on the earth below, 
And the hosts of Lucifer, pierced and slain. 
Dash to the earth in torrents of rain. 
Ah ! joy is me. 

It now must be 
That she is as true as my heart ; for see ! 
As an arch of triumph above the goal 
Of the victor — a rainbow from pole to pole. 
Glories on glories the skies unfold, 
Streaked by the sun into purple and gold. 
Ah ! sweet is the voice of my love to-day, 
And my song is a song of thanksgiving, 



For I live in the faith of believing 



O ' 



That the love that was iilad in the sunlight 



202 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Shall entwine and protect in the twilight ; 
That the heart that was true in the shadowy fight, 
ShalJ be strong and endure through the darkness of 
night. 




DAYS OF YORE. 

N oak tree by my window, 
An elm tree by the door, 
Through which the moonlight streaming 

Throws shadows as of yore ; 
Dark leaf sprites ! ghostly do ye dance, 
Weird shapes upon my floor ! 

Except where the moon is shining, 

The room is dark and dim ; 
And it seems to me — though it still may be 

A fancy, a dream, a whim — 
That the shadows are darker to-night than e'er, 

Darker and still more grim. 

A friend with light comes near me, 

Oh, pitying friend, depart ! 
Nor light, nor friends, nor merry cheer 

Nor melody, nor art, 



DAVS OF YORE. 203 



Would drive the gloom of this darkened room 
Out of my heart of hearts. 

Oh, moonlight, soft and tender ! 

Oh, leaflets green and true ! 
You make my heart remember 

A face I saw with you, 
A vision as pure as the stars that shine 

In heaven's unchanging blue.* 

Beneath yon elm tree straying, 

On such a night as this, 
With all Love's sweet delaying, 

And all Love's happiness, 
We gathered an age of paradise 

In a single evening's bliss. 

But darkly and at midnight 

The spirit of Death came on. 
And she heard him, and ere daylight 

She followed and was gone, 
While sorrowing winds came through the trees 

In a sad and desolate moan. 

Still mild and softly streaming. 

The moonlight floods the earth, 
Each house is roofed with silver. 

All have a sweet new birth. 



204 BETWEEN TIMES. 

And here with me the shadows cling 
About my lonely hearth. 

Oh, is there no returning 

Of dear ones torn away ? 
Can it be true that man is naught 

But perishable clay ? 
No, no ! for I will meet my love 

Somewhere, somehow, some day. 

Come, Night, with all your shadows. 
Come, Shades, with all your gloom, 

Oh, sombre throng, come quickly, 
Fill up my empty room, 

For here your dark dominion ends, 
You cannot pass the tomb. 

Then back, dark thoughts, and perish ! 

Back to your haunts, and die ! 
The love that still I cherish 

Shall bring the loved one nigh ; 
And all night's shadows shall not hide 

The love-glance of her eye. 




MARGY BROWN. 20 c; 



MARGY BROWN. 

ARGY BROWN ! Margy Brown ! 
Cease, I pray, your wondrous smiling ; 
There is something so beguiling 
In your smile, that I am whiling 
All my precious time away, 
And I must not, cannot stay ; 
For the sun is slowly setting, 
And the sky is darker getting, 
While my soul is fretting, fretting, 
And it seemeth to declare, 
Beware of Margy Brown i Beware ! 

Margy Brown ! Margy Brown ? 
Do not touch me with your finger 
Do not let it gently linger 
In my hand, and do not hinder 

Thus my going ; let me go. 

Mischief! can I leave you so? 
See, the daylight now is dying, 
And the shadows thick are lying 
Underneath the elm tree, vying 

With the shade of your dark hair. 

Beware, oh, Margy Brown ! Beware ! 



206 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Margy Brown ! Margy Brown ! 
See you not the darkness crawling ? 
Hear you not a soft voice falling ? 
Hark ! it is my mother calling, 

Calling for her laggard son ; 

Send me from you, pretty one : 
Turn away that brown eye shining, 
That is in my soul entwining, 
Undefined and undefining, 

Love-thoughts that I must not share ; 

Beware, sweet Margy Brown ! Beware ! 

Margy Brown ! Margy Brown ! 
Who is he who lingers yonder ? 
On what mission does he ponder ? 
When I part from you I wonder, 

Margy, will he come to you ? 

Does he love you, Margy, too ? 
Sweetheart, it was only jesting. 
That my haste from you was pressing ; 
I will stay, my love confessing, 

While my heart, it says, Beware ! 

Some one sees that she is fair — 

Take care of Margy Brown ! take care ! 




CHARLES SUMNER. 207 



CHARLES SUMNER. 

Written for the St. Louis " Globe," shortly after the death of Hon. Charles 

SUMNEK. 

OLUMBIA'S halls are desolate, 

Dark shadows in her chambers brood ; 
With blinding" tears she mourns the fate 
Of him, the gifted and the good. 
She kneels, in her impassioned woe. 

Her arms enfold her voiceless son ; 
She cannot, will not, let him go, 

Although the battle has been won. 
Crape flutters in the shuddering wind, 

And sadly beats the muffled drum, 
And lo ! before, around, behind, 

To weep Columbia's children come. 
Swift at his bier the tears descend, 

And like the moaning of the sea 
A million voices mourn the friend — 

The noble friend — of Liberty. 
Arise, Columbia ! do not weep ; 

And ye, the children of her womb, 
Behold, the soul of Sumner sleeps ! 

It will not moulder in the tomb. 
Arise ! and let your praise be heard 

That as he lived the patriot died ; 



2o8 BETWEEN TIMES. 

That, of the host of spoken words, 

God, Truth, and Freedom were his pride. 
No sect controlled his grand design ; 

No boundary made his labor cease ; 
Peace was the daystar of his mind, — 

In every land and nation — Peace ! 
Then let us deck our hero well 

With flowers ; in tears let smiles be seen ; 
With garlands wind the tolling bell, 

And leave the sleeper in his dream. 
Great warrior of peace, sleep on ! . 

Thy warfare has been bravely won ;. 
Thou art forever graved upon 

Our hearts, "Columbia's noble son." 
Thy kind hands crossed upon thy breast, 

We dumbly honor while we kiss ; 
We love thee in thy perfect rest, 

The statesman's highest honor this. 
Sleep, then ; thy last undying speech 

And " I am tired," shall be heard 
Till land to sister land shall reach, 

With common impulse stirred. 
God give us peace ! and when the voice 

Of anger cries for war and woe, 
Let us remember Sumner's choice, 

And, like bold freemen, answer " No ! " 



THE ASHMAN. 2O9 




THE ASHMAN. 

ITH bell-like voice and cadence strong, 
A trail of dust around him falling. 
The ashman quaintly chants the song 
Which heralds his approach and calling. 

His creaking wagon, bony steed 

And ragged clothes match well together ; 
A certain index of the need 

That makes him cry, though rough the weather. 
" Haul yo' ashes i Haul yo' ashes ! 
Dirt an' ashes — do yo' haulin' ! " 

However, on his coal-black face 

There is no shadow of repining; 
The humblest of his patient race. 

His eye with calm content is shining. 

I honor him because I know 
Tliat he is cheerful and light-hearted, 

Although through wind and rain and snow 
His dusty load is often carted. 

What though the dust upon his hair 

And torn attire betray his station } 
While still upon the frosty air 

flis voice rings like an inspiration. 



210 BETWEEN TIMES. 

" Haul yo' ashes ! Dirt an' ashes ! 
Now's de time to do yo' haulin' ! " 

None would exchange their happier lot 

For his unenviable labor, 
And yet, I warrant, there is not 

A truer friend or better neighbor. 

For never from his open door 

Have homeless wanderers been driven, 

And from his ever scanty store 
The generous gift is freely given, 

And though he is of humble birth, 

And thoughtless youngsters oft deride him, 

In all that makes up noble worth 
The town has few who stand beside him. 

Shout on, old ashman ! Send your cries 

Through streets and alleys gaily ringing ; 
Still preach contentment — patient, wise. 
And shame regret — while bravely singing 
" Haul yo' ashes ! Haul yo' ashes ! 
Now's de time to do yo' haulin' ! 
Dirt an' ashes, h'yur me callin', 
Haul yo' ashes ! Haul yo' ashes ! " 



MV W/FE. 



211 




MY WIFE. 

Y wife sits beside me — 
Now who shall deride me ? 
Ho ! who shall make merry when lovers are 
wise ? 
Fall snow e'er so lightly, 
Shine sun e'er so brightly, 
They dull not, they dim not, the light of her eyes. 

Wild leaping and lashing, 

Mad on the rocks dashing, 
Growl, old ocean hoary, with head of white foam ; 

Come crunching, come tearing, 

Go back, all despairing, 
I laugh and defy you, for I am at home. 



Her hand my hand pressing 
Gives back soft caressing ; 

Her voice, ever gentle, is loving and kind. 
As daily she meets me 
With glad smiles she greets me, 

So happiness leads me and care lags behind. 



212 BETWEEX TIMES. 

Go, sot, to your bottle, 

For soon it will throttle 
The pitiful pleasure you find in despair ; 

For all of your pleasure 

Is not worth the measure 
Of one waving strand of my wife's flowing hair. 

You soon will grow weary, 

But we shall be cheery. 
When you are forgotten our song shall be heard. 

Two hearts, but one-hearted, 

Apart, yet not parted, 
We journey along in the light of the Word. 

We jog on together 

Through rough and fair weather, 
And each holds the other so neither shall fall ; 

With kind words of soothing, 

Life's rough places smoothing. 
While sadness goes begging and sinks to the wall. 

Then fall, snow, so lightly, 

Blow, hollow winds, nightly. 
Dash, surf of the sea, on the rocks thy white foam ; 

The tempest may charm us 

But never shall harm us, 
For enter you cannot the circle of Home. 




THE UNFORTUNATE SHOEMAKER. 213 



THE UNFORTUNATE SHOEMAKER. 



F you please, sir, could you tell, sir, 
Whereabouts is Mr. Well's, sir ? 
Him as lives by making shoes, sir. 
Some one said as how you knew, sir. 

Do I know, boy } Yes, I do, boy, 
Which is why I tell to you, boy. 
It's a sad tale you must hear, boy. 
He is near his last, I fear, boy. 

If you please, sir, what's his ill, sir ? 
For it makes me rather chill, sir, 
For to hear as how you tell, sir, 
Mister Well, sir, isn't well, sir. 

Listen, then, boy, you're his friend, boy, 
Mr. Well has found his end, boy, 
Waxed it was and in his sole, boy, 
It did make a grievous hole, boy. 

Whereupon when I did call, boy, 
I found he had lost his awl, boy, 
And I have no doubt he pegs, boy. 
Even now on his last legs, boy. 



214 BETWEEN TIMES. 

If you please, sir, I'm askeered, sir, 
And I'm very much afeared, sir, 
How as which as Mr. Well, sir, 
Never will be werry well, sir. 



MY FEET ARE ON THE MOUNTAINS. 



I. 

Y feet are on the mountains, but I cannot 
see my way. 
There is darkness all about me, for the 
mist obscures the day. 




But I know the sun is shining, though I cannot see 
it now. 

And I soon shall reach the summit of the moun- 
tain's distant brow. 

Then be lifted, O my heart of hearts, be joyful, O 
my soul ! 

Let the waves of thankful gladness o'er my grate- 
ful spirit roll ; 

Send thy praise unto the Father, send thy love 
unto the Son, 

And thy reverence and homage to the sacred Holy 
One. 



J/J' FEET ARE OX THE MOUXTAINS. 215 



II. 

The path is steep and rugged, and the air is keen 
and cold, 

And the whirlwind and the tempest do my trem- 
bling limbs enfold, 

And the thunder shakes the mountain, while the 
lightning blinds my eye, 

But the Lord of lords upholds me, and He will 
not let me die. 

Then be lifted, O my heart of hearts ! Be joyful, 
O my soul ! 

Let the waves of thankful gladness o'er my grate- 
ful spirit roll ; 

Lo ! my praise is to the Father ; lo ! my love is. to 
the Son, 

And my reverence and homage to the sacred Holy 
One. 

III. 
The wild beasts of the mountains are the shadows 

of my path, 
I can hear their stealthy footfalls and the snarling 

of their wrath ; 
They are near me and around me, and they seek 

me to devour, 
But the God of Daniel's lions is my refuge and my 

power. 



2l6 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Then be lifted, O my heart of hearts ! Be joyful, 
O my soul ! 

Let the waves of thankful gladness o'er my grate- 
ful spirit roll. 

I will praise thy name, O Father ! I will love thy 
name, O Son ! 

And my heart shall be thy temple, O thou sacred 
Holy One. 

TV. 

Lo ! my eyes behold the light of day ; I see my 
journey's end ; 

And I see the smile of beauty of the sinner's gra- 
cious Friend. 

And the tempests and the wild beasts rage in im- 
potence below. 

For the peace of God forever rests upon the 
mountain's brow. 

Then be lifted, O my heart of hearts ! Be joyful, 
O my soul ! 

Let the waves of thankful gladness o'er my grate- 
ful spirit roll. 

Hallowed be thy name, O Father ! Blessed be thy 
name, O Son ! 

Praise and love and adoration to the holy Three in 
One. 



FACE THE MUSIC. 21/ 




FACE THE MUSIC. 

ACE the music, though the world should 
Turn against you in its might ; 
Waver not, be not a coward. 

Dare to think and do what's right. 

If reverses come, and sorrow 

Overtakes you on your way, 
Face the music, and the morrow 

Will dawn brighter than to-day. 

When a storm is breaking o'er you, 
Or an avalanche sweeps down, 

And your life seems dark before you, 
And the world appears to frown, 

And all friends prove false and leave you. 
E'en the friends you most do love, 

And your fondest hopes deceive you, 
Face the music — look above. 

Face the music, though the rattle 
Of the conflict jar your soul ; 

Boldly enter Life's long battle, 

God vour guide and Heaven your goal. 



21 8 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Face the music in Life's morning, 
Face it in the noontime bright ; 

Face it in the twilight gloaming, 
Face it in the solemn night. 

At all times and in all seasons, 
Wheresoever you may be. 

Let no fear nor favor bind you, 
Face the music and be free. 



MAXIMS. 




EEK daily that which daily needs thy care. 
Think nothing fair which thou canst make 
more fair. 

Give unto those who of thy bounty crave. 
Desire to live, but do not fear the grave. 
In all thou doest, all thy motives scan. 
Love man, love God ; but love God more than man. 
Be proud to know; in knowing, be not proud. 
Answer not anger with like anger loud. 
As thou art human, all things human learn ; 
As born for heaven, to things immortal turn. 
Hold not opinion with too firm a grasp. 
Thy heart and soul to faith and mercy clasp. 



FEAR NOT. DEAR HEART. 219 

Curse not the erring, but compassion show. 

Shun all the wrong, and do not give the blow. 

Be free to laugh ; in laughter be not free, 

But let thy mirth discretion-tempered be. 

Sneer not at sports which make the body strong ; 

Abstain from sports irreverent or wrong. 

The jeering skeptic do not fear to face ; 

But scoffers gather where shall come disgrace. 

On slippery ground is he who stands on ice. 

" Eat, drink, be merry," is a fool's device. 

Claim not, however sure, the race as won 

Till thou art victor and the race is done. 

If thou hast done a good deed unto men, 

Boast not of it, but do good deeds again. 

If ruler, just ; if ruled, obedient be. 

Honor thy word, and men shall honor thee. 

And over all, where'er thou art proclaim 

The free salvation in Immanuel's name. 




FEAR NOT, DEAR HEART. 

EAR not, dear heart, though fashion brings 
Its changing fancies ever ; 
The nearest and the dearest things 
Remain the same forever. 



220 BETWEEN TIMES 

The ribbon may be red or blue, 
The glove be brown or yellow, 

If but the owner's hand be true, 
The heart be warm and mellow. 

Although the garment speaks the plan 
Of fashion's skilful planner, 

The coat has never made the man 
Or custom made the manner. 

What matters though my friend has sent 

His letter plain or tinted, 
So that the words are frankly meant, 

Outspoken and unstinted. 

For fashion cannot go beyond 
The range of human feeling; 

A higher and a nobler bond 
Life ever is revealing. 

A mother's unrepining love, 

A wife who never falters, 
A faith in future life above. 

These, fashion never alters. 

It cannot make the rivers flee 

Back to their early fountains, 
Nor rule the tides, nor change for me 

The everlasting mountains. 



FEAR NOT DEAR HEART. 221 



It cannot kill the love of right, 

Nor quench the patriot fire, 
Nor dash to earth with all its might 

The brave hearts that aspire. 

It cannot stop the genial sun 
From shining on the flowers. 

Nor keep the dew from resting on 
The grass in morning hours. 

It cannot check the worlds that move 

Upon their paths diurnal, 
Nor scorn the power and holy love 

Of God, the Lord Eternal. 

And, oh ! how does the tender spell 
Of Christ's love and compassion 

In its simplicity repel 

All silly pride and fashion. 

Then sorrow not, though fashion brings 

Its changing fancies ever ; 
Remember that the dearest things 

Remain the same forever. 




222 BETWEEN TIMES. 



UNCERTAINTY. 

HROUGH what nervous fluctuations 
And what painful palpitations, 
Through what stages and gradations 

Of uncertain hope we pass. 
Up to-day and down to-morrow, 
Heights of joy and depths of sorrow. 
Now we lend and now we borrow, 
Swaying like the summer grass. 

II. 

In one moment all elated, 
With some golden plan inflated, 
Till the brilliant bubble, freighted 

With a day-dream breaks and dies. 
But the essence of that dreaming 
Lingers, as a perfume seeming, 
Balm like healing, and redeeming 

From despair, discouraged lives. 

III. 
In our changeable condition, 
Failure comes, so does fruition ; 
Both have their peculiar mission ; 
Hopes and doubts go hand in hand. 



WHEN I WOULD DIE. 223 



For we build our hopes resplendent 
On a dozen things contingent, 
Which themselves are but dependent 
On an if or on an and. 

IV. 

And 'tis well : the Father, knowing 
What is best in His bestowing 
For his children's safe upgrowing, 

Lets us struggle on our way ; 
Till we learn that disappointment 
Is not evil, but an ointment 
Of good will, of His appointment, 

Strengthening us from day to day. 




WHEN I WOULD DIE. 

I WOULD not die in childhood, 

When Hfe's sweet buds have only just begun 
To greet the rising of the morning sun ; 

WHien every voice is only raised to bless. 

And every gentle touch is a caress ; 

When whispered words are undisguised and sweet, 

And human angels guard my baby feet ; 



224 BETWEEN TIMES. 

When, tired of play, upon my mother's knee 
I sleep, soothed by her tender lullaby ; 
When in my springtime's overflowing cup 
The holy debt of childhood is heaped up, 
And mystery enfolds both earth and sky, 
What need have I to die ? 

No, let me rather live 
In thankful, glad return my love to give 
To those who loved me then ; in whose kind care 
My feeble limbs grew strong. I would repay 
With tenfold blessings every blessing they 
Strewed on my rosy path. And gratefully 
I would recall my mother's lullaby, 
And, with her guidance, in the path of truth 

I would press on to youth. 

I would not die in youth. 
When, in their matchless and their perfect bloom, 
Life's opening flowers shed forth their sweet per- 
fume ; 
When the swift blood goes leaping through my 

veins, 
And yet my youthful memory retains 
My mother's prayers. When every hope is bright, 
When the young heart is faithful to the right. 
And sweeter beauties mark each changing sight ; 



WHEX I WOULD DIE. 



When, like a soldier fresh into the war. 
Unharmed by hardship and unmarred by scar, 
With eager haste I step into the strife 
Upon the ancient battle-field of life, 
When love is pure and earnest purpose high, 
Why should I die ? 

No. Let me rather stay — 
In truth and honor wend my youthful way, 
Gird up my loins, set towards the mark my face, 
And bravely entering Life's uncertain race, 
Let me press on, while every healthful sign 
Defies the blight of premature decline ; 
Let me press on, in youth's resistless might, 
With wrong contending, and defending right. 
So in the sure and steady course of time 
I would reach manhood and attain my prime. 

I would not die in manhood. 
When the ripe fruit is banging on the bough, 
And the broad harvest is all whitened now ; 
When the clear vision of my later hour 
Marks the full beauty of the open flower ; 
When the long race is very nearly run. 
And the fierce battle has been almost won : 
V/hen the poor need me ; when v/ith v.'ord or deed 
T may give comfort to the hearts that bleed ; 



226 BETWEEN TIMES. 

When I may stand even as the oak in strength, 
And tower amidst the storm, and when at length 
I reach the summit of Life's mountain high, 
What cause have I to die ? 

No. Let me rather stand, 
While manhood's power still moves my hardy hand, 
A friend to all who need a faithful friend, 
True to my trust, till from the time-worn stage 
Of life I pass, in honored gray old age. 

Then let me die. 
When I am old, and there are none to love — 
When all that I hold dear have passed above 
The wrangle and the jar — when the plucked field 
Of life is empty, and will no more yield 
To me its store of sweets ; when I have run 
The course God gave me, and my feeble sun 
Is sinking fast to rest ; when I can say 
That I have faithfully pursued my way, 
Have done my duty ; when the last loved head 
Lies underneath the faded flowers, dead, 
Then I am ready. 

In what I have failed. 
When I have faltered, proven false, or quailed, 
I rest my cause with Him, who will forgive 
For His Son's sake who died that I might live. 
And so, contented, with no tears to weep. 
With smiles, I will lie down, at last to sleep. 



THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES. 22/ 



THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES. 



S the leaves which now are dying, 
As the leaves which now are lying 
** Browned and goldened in the fashion 

Of the olden autumn time ; 
As the rich gloss on them streaming, 
Or the frost upon them gleaming, 
So Life's autumn tints soon coming 
On my heart will beam and shine. 

As the leaves that glide and flutter 
Downward, downward to the gutter, 
Shrivelled, crisp, and brittle, rustling 

Ever in the same old way, 
Thou, my cherished one, must alter, 
Cool thine ardor, waver, falter, 
In the time to come, returning 

To the Undiscovered Day. 

And the old leaves — who can find them ? 
Lo ! they leave no trace behind them : 
Wind-blown, buried by a myriad 

Other leaves, they are no more. 
So, my heart, thy short life's pleasure 
Is but measured with the measure 



228 BETWEEN TIMES. 

Of a moment, and thou goest 
To a vast and unknown shore. 

Then be true, dear heart, and ponder ; 
Then be still, my heart, and wonder 
What the faded leaves may teach thee, 

As they scatter to the ground. 
Hark ! their voices, calling, calling, 
Still, though ever falling, falling, 
Breathing out their tender lesson 

With a clear and certain sound : 

" Welcome, wind, that bears us onward ; 
Welcome, wind, that beats us downward ; 
We are floating, we are floating, 

To the place of rest we come ; 
To our parent earth forever, 
Lo ! we journey altogether ; 
Root and tree and branch shall never 

Part us from our cherished home." 

So then, heart of mine, remember, 
In this chilling, drear November, 
Even, as the dry leaves loosen. 

While the wind sweeps to and fro. 
As the hour that long has sought them, 
As the time that now has brought them, 
Autumn, so to thee will autumn 

Come. Then be thou glad to go. 



THE CREED OF LOVE. 229 



THE CREED OF LOVE. 



OWEVER low and wretched one may be, 
That which is noblest may survive the 
rest ; 

Though full of evils, and perverted, he, 
If kindly sought, will answer to the quest. 

Who that is fallen but sometimes does feel 
The spark of that almost extinguished fire 

Which, through the vilest sin, does still reveal 
The life of secret hope and pure desire ? 

Oh, do not say that it is now too late 
To save a single ruined life on earth. 

The Master only is the arbiter of fate. 
And He decides what every soul is worth. 

Still follow them with kindly deed and care 
Who are descending sadly to the deep ; 

The ready sympathy and earnest prayer 
Alay save them yet before their fatal leap. 

How can we know, we, guarded by the ties 

Which home and love and friendship round us 
weave, 



230 BETWEEN TIMES. 

How in their hearts the solemn yearning Hes, 
Their sins to spurn, their evil paths to leave? 

Be ever ready, then, not to condemn, 

But to befriend them, and with glad surprise 

They, too, will learn the evil to contemn 
Which is so despicable in our eyes. 

Befriend them, that they too may issue forth, 
Still doing good out of pure heart and mind, 

And it shall be, through blessing men on earth, 
Thou shalt receive the love of all mankind. 




TURN ABOUT. 

URN about — turn about - 

This is fair play ; 
Give every man a chance, 

That is the way. 
Poor man to president, 
Rover or resident, 
All who are diligent 

Must have their day. 



TURX ABOUT. 23 I 



Turn about — turn about — 

Fortune is fair ; 
In this world bountiful 

All have a share. 
Every community 
Has opportunity 
For those who prudently 

Work, and take care. 

Turn about — turn about — 
When you are wrong ; 

Better be right and true 
Than be too strong. 

Yield, but not wastefully ; 

Gently and tastefully ; 

Giving way gracefully 
Helps one along. 

Life has its store for all, 

Peasant and king ; 
Success is not from without, 

But from within. 
And not the undermost. 
And not the uppermost, 
But he who labors most 

Wisely shall win. 



232 BETWEEX TIMES. 

Hope and persistence — 
These are the needs, 

Coupled with patience, 
Whereby one succeeds. 

Be not low-spirited ; 

Though not inherited, 

Heaven may be merited 
By faith and good deeds. 

That is the talisman 
Leading us right ; 
These are our jewels rare, 

Precious and bright. 
Effort beneficent, 
Though it be diffident, 
Still is magnificent 
In the Kincf's sight. 



BosTO>" Stereotype Fouxdky, 4 Peakl Street. 



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